


Fine Dining. Filthy Manners.

by aswrite03



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Absolutely Worth It In the End, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, BAMF Arya Stark, BAMF Bran Stark, BAMF Sansa Stark, BAMF Starks, Bran Stark Deserved Better (and he's getting it), Bran Stark Has Emotions, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gendry Waters is a Gift, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are Cousins (Very Distant Couins), Manipulative Petyr Baelish, Meera Reed Deserved Better (and she's getting it), Petyr Baelish is His Own Warning, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Romance, Slow Burn, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 64,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22817182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aswrite03/pseuds/aswrite03
Summary: Sansa Stark might have finally taken control of her family's restaurant, Winterfell, liberating it from the management of Ramsey Bolton and the oversight of Petyr Baelish, but her work is far from finished. But the restaurant industry, much like politics, is full of people waiting for Sansa to make the wrong move. One misstep, one bad review, and the game is over.Luckily, head chef (and distant cousin) Jon Snow is there to help with returning Winterfell to its former glory as the crown jewel of the North. But as they grow closer, Jon finds himself wanting to show the new Queen exactly what it means to provide a full service experience....The linen on the tables might be clean and pure but what they do when the kitchen closes most definitely isn't....
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters (Background), Jon Snow/Jamie Lannister (brief), Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Sansa Stark/Jamie Lannister (brief)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 280





	1. The Queen Arrives

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've been kicking around for a while and finally decided to put down on paper (so to speak). I've read so many works on this site by so many amazing writers (in no particular order, to name a few: woodswit, orangeflavor, Charmtion, MissFaber, thimbleful) that I felt inspired to create my own. It's my first posting on this site but will most assuredly not be my last.
> 
> As the tags say, it's a slow burn--very slow--but will eventually have more than its fair share of smut as we work toward a happy ending. That's right, I said happy ending; there's nothing wrong with some well-placed angst but at the end of the day I think we all need something good, and that includes fictional characters. As this is an AU, there will be some elements of the show (which is what I'm familiar with) which won't be included, either because they're not applicable or because, quite frankly, they shouldn't have been included in the show. Any specific warnings will be posted at the beginning of the chapter in question, not in the tags, although those might change as the story progresses.
> 
> With all of that out of the way--happy reading!

This was the day. The day she’d dreamed about since she was a little girl. The day she’d worked toward her entire life. She’d bled, sweated, wept more than few tears, had more than a few sleep deprived nights. She’d sacrificed parts of herself she could never hope to get back. In the end, none of it mattered because she had what she’d always wanted.

Winterfell, the crown jewel in the Stark restaurant empire, was hers.

And Sansa was determined to make sure it continued to shine as bright, if not brighter, as it had for generations.

Setting down the powder brush, she studied her reflection, turning her head from side to side, looking for the slightest imperfection. The weekend at sea with her younger sister had added the faintest touch of color to her porcelain skin, making her look fashionably pale yet flushed instead of a mere step or two above the walking corpse she’d come too close to resembling of late. She’d twisted her hair into a complicated braid, both for vanity and practicality—it was far too long to wear loose, even if the majority of her day would likely be spent in the office and dining room and not the kitchen. The bright copper shone against the steel blue-grey sheath dress she’d selected with the same level of care as another woman might have selected her wedding gown—long sleeved and high necked to cover the physical scars of her sacrifices. A double wolf pendant, dangling from a delicate gold chain—a family heirloom—was her sole piece of jewelry.

Appearance wise, she was perfect. Annoyingly so, her sister would have said, and quite often did.

So what if her heart was pounding like a herd of stampeding cattle and there was the faintest sheen of sweat coating her back and her stomach was tying itself in the sort of knots which would have made her sister swoon with delight? The only person who knew any of those things was her and she intended for it stay that way.

Squaring her shoulders, she smoothed her dress down one last time before turning and walking out of the bedroom, scooping up her purse and coat off the hall table without breaking stride.

*****

“So the rumor is the Queen is going to grace us with her presence for the first time today.” Tormund raked one hand through his shock of flame red hair, lifting the other to pull a drag from his hand rolled cigarette. “She’s your cousin, isn’t she? This new manager of ours?”

“Distant. Very, very distant.” Jon lit his own cigarette, special ordered and shipped in from Dorne, inhaling the sweet and spicy tobacco, letting it sit in his lungs for a moment before exhaling. The epithet fit—as far back as he could remember, Sansa had wanted to be a princess. Some would argue, given her family status, that she was one. Being a queen was probably better. “I couldn’t tell you precisely how we’re related but I think it’s something along the lines of fourth or fifth, a few times removed.”

“Which explains why you’re only a cook.” Tormund laughed when Jon growled in mock outrage and swung at him halfheartedly. “Best damn cook I know, other than myself, but still only a cook.”

“Management isn’t for me.” Jon gave a passing thought to the summer he’d worked as a manager in a fast food restaurant before half his staff had decided he was too harsh on them—God forbid they follow food safety handling regulations or proper customer service procedures—and walked out, leaving him severely understaffed for the rest of the summer. He’d gotten through it, thanks in no small part to the few staff members who’d been on his side, but the entire experience had left a bad taste in his mouth.

So he’d stick to the kitchen and the staff he’d personally trained who’d somewhere along the way become not only his friends but his family.

“Hell, if a prick like Ramsey Bolton could do it, anybody can.” Tormund paused, taking another long inhale of his cigarette and exhaling before continuing. “Still don’t know what the Starks were thinking, bringing him on.”

“Not much of a choice, really. Ned and Catelyn’s will put the entire business in trust under the guidance of Baelish until the oldest child was able to take over management, which would have been Robb but….” Jon trailed off, momentarily distracted by an old memory, he and his childhood friend teasing the Stark sisters. Shaking his head, he continued, “Anyway, with Ned, Catelyn, Rob, and Rickon all dead in the crash, Baelish was left in charge and he brought in Bolton. I guess when the Queen finally finished at that fancy school of hers, she made it known she was taking the reins. Not like either Arya or Bran have an interest in the business.” Jon thought about his younger cousins, Arya sailing up and down the coast, coming and going whenever it suited her, Bran—who’d become more than a little obsessed with the metaphysical since the accident which had killed half his family and robbed him of the use of his legs—off on a seemingly neverending spirit quest. “I will admit to being curious as to how the Queen was able to convince Baelish to fire Bolton.”

“Fucking lawyers.” Tormund turned his head and spit, although whether that was due to the topic or the stray flecks of tobacco from his cigarette was up for debate. “If it wasn’t for you, Bolton would have ran this place into the ground.”

“He did run it into the ground, everywhere but the kitchen.” All it had taken was one well-timed knife throw to convince Bolton to stay out of Jon’s domain. Jon wouldn’t have actually hit him—at least not on purpose—but Bolton didn’t need to know that. “But all of that is for the Queen to fix.”

“Is that what they’re calling me—the Queen?”

Both men turned at the question, Tormund’s eyes widening, the last of his cigarette burning to ash in his fingers. Crossing the loading dock which did double duty as a smoking corner, he offered Sansa—because who else could it be—a sweeping bow which managed to be more stately than mocking. “Said only with the utmost respect, your Grace.”

“I’m sure.” Sansa’s response might have been dry but there was the faintest undercurrent of humor in her voice. She shifted her attention to Jon, her gaze lingering on his cigarette for the briefest of moments before rising to his face. “Jon Snow. I don’t think I’ve seen you since Arya’s graduation party.”

He gave a passing thought to snuffing out the cigarette since it clearly annoyed her but he only had a few drags left and it was far too expensive to waste. “Sounds about right. How is she? Last time I talked to her she was trying to decide between sailing to Old Valyrhia or Meeren.”

“I managed to convince her to stay closer to Westeros so she’s contented herself with sailing up and down the coast.” Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “Although I think some of that laid-back mood could be thanks to her new deck hand.”

“Little Arya has a boyfriend, does she?” Jon took a final drag, stubbing out the cigarette and tossing it in the sand bucket in the corner of the dock. “Let me guess—according to her they’re just friends?”

“Something like that.” The smile faded, leaving her face startlingly blank, a pale and perfect oval of porcelain, the bones of her face seemingly carved out of ivory. For all her delicate appearance, Jon knew she had to possess a spine and soul of steel. You didn’t last seven years at Red Keep University otherwise. “We’ve having a staff meeting at one this afternoon. I’m not sure what your daily schedule is like but I’d appreciate it if you could be there and if we could have a private meeting afterward.”

Jon studied her for a moment, noting the tension in her laced fingers and the slight hammer of her pulse in her throat. Much like Tormund had done, he offered her a short bow. “My Queen.”

“I think ‘Sansa’ will do.” Giving them both a brisk nod, she turned on her heels and marched back into the restaurant, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.

Tormund waited a beat before hooting out a laugh. “Oh, little crow, your cousin is most definitely a queen.” He wiggled his bushy brows. “If she asks me to bend the knee, I’ll say ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.”

“Hey.” It was easy to convince himself his annoyance and the hint of anger were based in familial reasons. It was definitely easier than wondering why he cared about his friend possibly hitting on his cousin. “She’s family. And our boss. Maybe tone down the innuendo.”

“Only a joke, only a joke.” Tormund wiggled his brows again. “Unless….”

“Enough.” Jon hunched his shoulders against a sudden gust of wind. “We’ve got prep to do.”


	2. A Meeting of Generals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa meet to discuss how to move forward after the mistakes of the previous management.
> 
> (Warning: mention/hint of prior abuse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks to everyone who has read/left comments/kudos. Like I mentioned previously, I've been thinking of this story for a while and I'm happy to know other people are enjoying reading it.
> 
> Second, while there is a warning for mention/hint of prior abuse, it is very, VERY slight and far from graphic. In the event it should ever be graphic, rest assured it was be explicitly stated to allow people to bypass that chapter if they're uncomfortable with such topics.
> 
> Finally, as mentioned in the tags, this is a slow burn--these first few chapters and probably more than a few after are about building the world, story, and characters. However, the wait for the smut will be well worth it, I promise.
> 
> In the mean time--happy reading!

Jon gave the door of Sansa’s office a cursory knock before pushing it open, drawing up short as he took in the changes in the space. When Bolton had taken over, he’d had the walls painted blood red, installing a love seat and cushy arm chairs with a splashy red and pink floral pattern in one corner of the room and a desk as large as a small island in the opposite one, lining the walls with bookcases which displayed vaguely pornographic photos. Jon had done his best to spend as little time as possible in the room, not only because he disliked Bolton but because the room as a whole turned his stomach.

In the two weeks since Bolton’s removal, the walls had been repainted a pale dove gray with an off-white trim, the ornate, overbearing bookcases replaced with a row of waist-high filing cabinets which looked both elegant and practical. The baroque, overly lush loveseat and chairs were gone and in their place were an oversized olive green sofa which looked suspiciously as if it held a pullout bed and two wingbacked chairs which looked as if they might have been heirlooms. The new desk, like the filing cabinets, was elegant and practical—very Stark-like.

Very much, he thought as he studied it, the office of a leader who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty. Very similar, he realized after a moment, to his own office. Not the style, of course—his was admittedly more rustic, more rough and ready—but the tone and he wondered idly what other similarities he and his cousin shared.

Sansa stepped out of the small ensuite, pausing in the middle of smoothing some imaginary wrinkle from her dress. “Jon.”

“Sansa.” He gave an exaggerated look around the room. “You work fast.”

“Can you blame me?” She wrinkled her nose. “It was absolutely awful. How was he able to get anything accomplished with all that…well, that.”

“I’m pretty sure by this point you know Ramsey Bolton didn’t accomplish much. Or at least much good.” Jon eased the door shut behind him, noticing the way Sansa tensed ever so slightly, moving until the desk was firmly between them. Filing away that little oddity to be discussed at a later time, he nodded at one of the chairs positioned in front of the desk. “Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead.” She took her own chair, clasping her hands together and resting them on the oversized blotter which covered the majority of the desk’s surface. “Might as well get off your feet while you can. I’m sure you heard we’re completely booked for both dinner services.”

“Four hundred covers.” Jon tapped a finger on the chair arm. “It’s been a while since we had a night like that.” He caught Sansa’s look and shrugged. “The back of the house staff can handle it, no worries. Not sure the same can be said for the front of the house staff.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed the front of house employees share more than a few… traits.”

“Which is your polite way of saying that most of them have more tits than brains and the few who do have brains are more concerned with using their tits to hook a rich man than doing their job.” Jon lifted a brow when Sansa snorted. “You can correct me if you believe I’m wrong.”

“No, no, I happen to agree with you, I just don’t know how appropriate it is for someone in a position of management—which would be both of us—to use such language when discussing employees.” She dropped her gaze to her hands and Jon watched as she tightened her grip, her knuckles turning white under the strain. “As I’m sure you know, we’re dealing with some fallout due to Mr. Bolton’s hiring practices and—.”

“House Stark is being sued for sexual harassment?”

“We would have been if I hadn’t dismissed Mr. Bolton and taken over management. As it stands, the women who threatened to bring suit are satisfied with the change in management as well as the donations the company has made to various organizations which work with victims of sexual harassment and assault.” She sighed, closing her eyes as she lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of her nose. “They were all offered positions here or at any of the sister restaurants—not surprisingly, none of them have expressed an interest in working for us again.”

“As you said, not surprisingly.” Jon studied her face, wondering if the faint tremble of her lips came from the thought of the smirch on her family legacy and the uphill battle to remove it or some other, darker reason. “Is Baelish handling the… what did you call it? The fallout?”

“No.” She opened her eyes, dropping her hand back to the desk. “No, I’ve switched firms entirely. Davos and Tarly—have you heard of them?”

“I worked with a Sam Tarly who used to talk about going to law school.” Jon smiled as he thought about the teenager who spent the entire summer waxing about the beauty of the law and how difficult it was to get into the Maester College of Law at the Citadel. “Might be him.”

“Might be.” She sighed again, scribbling her nail over the blotter. “Returning to the original topic, I’ll be running the dining room tonight to get a feel for the staff as a while—their weak points and their strong ones, who the stronger servers are, who may need to be bumped down to a food runner or who should be promoted to crew leader. While I’m looking to develop my own opinion, I’d like yours, as well, especially concerning their interactions with the back of the house staff.”

“Your strongest server by far would be Gilly—your most polite, too. Never snaps at any of the back of the house staff, helps out wherever she’s needed, doesn’t try and wiggle her way out of tipout.” Jon paused, drumming his fingers on the chair arm, running his tongue over his teeth as he considered his next statement. “Bolton always gave her the shit sections because… well, I’m sure you can guess why.”

“Yes.” Sansa unlaced her fingers and Jon caught a glimpse of faint ridges in her skin where she’d—either consciously or unconsciously—dug her nails into her hands, making a notation on a notepad at her elbow before glancing at him. “At the opposite end of the spectrum, who would you say—.”

“Myranda—she was Bolton’s favorite. To be honest, I’m surprised she didn’t quit when he was fired.”

“I see.” She made another notation before setting the pen down. “Anybody else?”

“If I were you, I would start looking for a new maître d’—today. Chances are good the one you have jumped ship with Bolton but was too chickenshit to say so to your face.” He slowed his finger drumming before finally coming to a stop, pressing his palm to the cool leather. “I may have someone—well, you really. She was one of your mother’s hires, was in line to take over as maître d’ when Aemon retired but, well….”

“Bolton. Again.” Sansa sighed, leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes, pressing two fingers to her temple. Her sleeve slipped down a fraction of an inch and Jon caught a glimpse of a thin, curved mark, too healed to be recent but not faded enough to be that old. She dropped her hand back to the desk and Jon shifted his gaze away a split second before she opened her eyes. “We’re lucky the Starks and Winterfell are something of a Northern institution, otherwise it would be impossible to clean up the mess of Bolton’s mismanagement. But gods, I’m already tired of hearing of all the ways he and Baelish tried to ruin us.”

“So you’ll do one better.” Jon shot her a half smile when she raised a brow in question. “You’ll erase them—their words, their name, all memory of them. Nobody will ever think of them while you… they’ll remember the Stark name, your name, for the rest of time.” He shrugged. “They wanted to be remembered. We’ll make sure they aren’t.”

“Yes.” She smiled, a genuine smile, and for a moment Jon forgot how to breathe and then felt stupid for having such a reaction. “We’ll make sure they aren’t.” She stood, smoothing down her dress again, something Jon was starting to suspect was as habitual and unconscious as a warrior adjusting their armor. “I’m looking forward to working with you. Really. Mother and Father always spoke highly of your work in the kitchens.”

“I appreciate that.” And, even though he knew Caitlyn hadn’t been that fond of him—he looked too much like his mother, the wild, willful and ultimately doomed Lyanna, who’d caused Ned and the rest of the Starks so much grief—he was touched to know she’d had some degree of respect for his skills. Ned hadn’t withheld his praise but neither had he been effusive with it, not wanting to show favoritism. Jon stood, clearing his throat. “They were proud of you, too. I mean, they’d be proud of you now, too.”

“I’m not sure about that, but thank you.” She ran a hand over her hair, even though not a single hair was out of place and Jon wondered idly what it would look like unbound and wild and free and then immediately squelched the thought. He’d jumped down Tormund’s throat not even two hours ago about eyeballing their boss—he didn’t get a free pass just because they were distantly related and had something of a previous relationship. “Shall we head over to the staff meeting?”

“Sure.” Jon waited for her to move, planning to follow behind her. When she remained behind the desk, her hands drifting toward each other before she clasped them together yet again, he wiggled his jaw side to side before saying, “Would you like me to leave first?”

“I’m not fond of men—people, I mean—walking behind me.” Her smile this time was tight, brittle, her features creasing in unnatural lines. “Old habit.”

“Okay.” A picture was starting to form in his mind, an ugly one, one which set a fire burning in his gut and had him wanting to curl his own hands into fists. He resisted the urge, something telling him it would only set Sansa more on edge. He backed toward the door, fumbling with the doorknob for a moment before grasping it and pulling the door open, stepping into the hall. “Good?”

“Yes, thank you.” The sickly smile faded, leaving her face eerily blank. Picking up a small elastic bracelet holding a trio of keys and a swipe card, she slipped it onto her left wrist before crossing the room, stepping in the hall and pulling the door closed. Her hands trembled slightly as she locked the door but neither she nor Jon commented on it. Turning to him, she said, “Ready?”

“Sure.” He fell into step not quite next to her, perhaps a step ahead, his hands loose at his sides. As they walked down the hall toward the dining room, he found himself wondering exactly what his cousin had been forced to do to take back Winterfell.


	3. A Post Battle Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon meet to discuss the end of the first day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to everyone who has read/commented/left kudos. Knowing there's interest in this piece makes it that much easier to continue writing it.
> 
> We're still moving at something akin to a snail's pace here but I feel it's the best way to do justice to these characters and this relationship. Rest assured, when we finally kick in to high gear, this piece will more than earn those smut tags.
> 
> As always--happy reading!

Later that night, Sansa collapsed on the sofa in her office, toeing off her heels with a whimper. As Jon had suggested, the maître d’ had simply not shown up, forcing Sansa to fill the position herself for the evening. While it provided her the opportunity to socialize with the guests, it had also prevented her from observing the front of house staff as closely as she would have liked. Still, she’d seen enough to know that Jon hadn’t lied when he’d spoken about the quality of the servers, in particular Gilly and Myranda.

It appeared Jon Snow knew at least a few things.

There was a trio of knocks on the door and before Sansa could ask who it was, it opened and, as if her thoughts had summoned him, Jon stuck his head around the edge of the wooden frame. “Hey—saw the light on under the door. Do you want to do a rundown of the shift now or in the morning?”

She struggled to a sitting position, doing her best to tug the skirt of her dress back down into place. “I don’t want to keep you. I know you’ve put in a long shift and—.”

“And you haven’t?” He stepped more fully into the office, nodding at her shoes, leaning against each other like a pair of drunks after a night out. “How bad do your feet hurt right now?”

“On a scale of one to ten—a twenty.” She laughed, shaking her head. “It was stupid to wear them, I know, but in my defense I didn’t expect to walk about ten miles in them.”

“If it makes you feel better, I probably couldn’t walk more than about ten steps in them.” He eased the door closed, watching her face the entire time. Crossing the room, he took the chair opposite her, nodding again, this time at her feet. “Want a massage?”

“Excuse me?” Sansa blinked. “A what?”

“A foot massage.” He stretched out his legs, knocking over her shoes in the process. “I’ve been told I have good hands. Consider it a reward for an excellent first night in command.”

She studied him, the openness in his face, the casualness of his posture. “A foot massage?”

“Uh, yes.” He blinked and then frowned. “I’m sorry, was that inappropriate? I mean, it probably would be if we didn’t know each other but since we do, I didn’t think it would be completely out of line and—.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She forced herself to smile, to remember that not every man was actually a monster in disguise. She shifted, lifting her right foot and resting it on his knee, careful to keep her own knees pressed together. “I’m just tired. My brain is feeling a little fried.”

“Your brain?” Jon snorted, cracking his knuckles and loosening up his fingers before taking her foot firmly between his hands. “I doubt that, truly. You were always the cleverest of your siblings, even Robb. It’ll take more than a single shift to wreck that brain of yours.”

“Hmm.” Sansa chose to ignore the warm glow spreading through her at his praise, so freely given, choosing instead to focus on the pleasure/pain as he massaged the knots in the arch of her foot. She swallowed back a moan as one particularly brutal knot started to unwind, biting the inside of her cheek to prevent the unladylike noise from escaping. Clearing her throat, she said, “All things considered, it was a good night.”

“All things considered. Still, I’d like to see about hiring some more food runners, especially if you’re looking to continue with four hundred covers a night.” He pressed the heel of his palm to her instep, glancing up at her when she whimpered. “Everything good?”

“That muscle cramped up about two hours ago and you finally got it to relax.” Sansa gave into her exhaustion, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “But returning to the original topic, you know you don’t have to clear the back of the house hiring with me. It’s always been Stark policy to give the head chef a good deal of independence in choosing their staff and so far that’s worked to our advantage.”

“True, it has, but since we haven’t discussed it before now, I didn’t want to make any kind of assumptions.” Jon continued working the nots and kinks out of her foot, his fingertips barely brushing her ankles. “This is your restaurant—not only because you’re the general manager but because it’s your family legacy. That doesn’t change just because I’m better in the kitchen than you are.”

It took a moment for his words to register and when they did, she opened her eyes and gave him a mock scowl, pretending to kick him. “Hey—I passed every one of my culinary training classes with high marks.”

“You, the girl who burned boiled eggs because she was distracted by a soap opera?”

“First of all, 'Jonquil and Florian' has won numerous awards so show it a little respect, okay? Second, the key word in your question is ‘girl’—I’m much, much older now.”

Jon snorted. “You’re all of what, twenty-five? You’re not even close to old. I’m the one pushing thirty.”

“Yes, but men get more attractive as they age, everybody knows that.” Sansa sighed, lifting her other foot when Jon gave the first one a tap. “Women, on the other hand, lose value.”

“I know I just said you were the cleverest one of your siblings but I may have to rethink that if you keep saying stupid things like that.” Jon went to work on her left foot, muttering under his breath and shaking his head. “Have you looked at yourself? I mean, really looked at yourself? You’re gorgeous now, yeah, but in five more years, you’ll be even more gorgeous. When you’re fifty, you’re gonna shine like a diamond. But that’s not even your greatest asset.”

“Really?” She lifted a brow. “And, what, pray tell, is?”

“Your brain, obviously.” He gave her a questioning look. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“Oh, maybe my name. Maybe my family’s reputation.” Sansa shrugged. “If you were trying to be crude, you could have mentioned specific body parts.”

“Jesus.” Jon paused, lifting one hand and dragging it through his hair. “I don’t… look, I’m not going to pretend sexism isn’t still rampant in this industry—hell, in the world in general—but anybody who believes something like that, who says something like that, is absolute shit.” He returned to massaging her foot, his gaze steady on hers. “Who talked to you like that? One of your classmates? A professor?” He paused a beat, thinking of the former estate trustee. “Baelish?”

“Does it matter?” Her smile wasn’t cynical so much as resigned and Jon found that nearly as disturbing as the image of Baelish filling her head with filth and doubts. The girl he remembered from his childhood had been full of dreams and laughter and an unflinching belief in the good in people. “Anyway—do you think Brienne’s contact information is still in the system or would Bolton have purged it?”

“Even if he did, I can get in contact with her.” Jon scribbled one nail over the ball of Sansa’s foot, smiling when she didn’t quite hold back a squeal. “Well, it would be more accurate to say I can ask Tormund to get in contact with her.” He flicked her a glance from under his lashes. “Tormund’s had a thing for her since the moment he saw her. It’s taken some time but I think she might finally be warming up to him.” He flashed her a grin. “Or at least that’s what I tell Tormund when he asks. I’m not sure how true it is but at least she’s stopped calling him an idiot when she texts him.”

“I’d like to have her in for an interview as soon as possible.”

“She’s probably free tomorrow.” Jon shrugged when Sansa frowned. “I can’t be sure, but I’ve gotten the impression—again, this is coming second hand through Tormund—that she hasn’t been able to land another position. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bolton or Baelish or both of them were giving her a bad reference.”

“No, that wouldn’t be surprising at all.” Sansa sighed then winced, the aches in her back and shoulders finally making themselves known as the ones in her feet were skillfully soothed. “If she can be here tomorrow, good, and if we can come to an agreement on the position—responsibilities, salary, and so on—then she can start the following night.”

“If I know Brienne, she’ll be ready to start as soon as you offer her the job.”

“That’s even better. I want to discuss my plans for our staff training program as well as our hiring needs and the sooner we can get started on those, the better.” She slouched further against the sofa, her feet now comfortably propped on Jon’s thigh. “I feel we’re going to have to let a large number of the serving staff go but I don’t want to do that without first giving them a chance to improve and, failing that, having more staff waiting in the wings. We’ll never be able to build and maintain sales if we’re consistently understaffed.”

“Which is why I’m going to start looking for additional food runners tomorrow before you and I sit down to discuss the menu for the weekend.” Jon stroked her foot with one hand almost absentmindedly, tapping the fingers of the other on the chair arm. “I’m not sure if you remember but your parents liked to change over the specials on Thursday and we’ve kept to that routine.”

“Dad always said Thursday was better because it gave you a chance to make sure you hadn’t shot yourself in the foot.” Sansa smiled, the memory of her father oh so seriously explaining the policy to her unreasonably fascinated ten-year old self more comforting than sad. She’d discovered that, as time passed, thoughts of her family brought more joy than pain, even though she suspected the little ache around her heart would never fully go away. “It’s almost summer. I’d love to be able to include more seasonal offerings, especially since you’ve been able to keep the kitchen garden in operation.”

“Summer means lemons.” Jon smiled. “That’s your favorite dessert, isn’t it? Lemon cakes?”

“I don’t remember the last time I had a lemon cake.” Sansa straightened, dropping her feet to the floor. “I’ve got some paperwork to finish up and then I’m headed home. I’ll be back at eleven tomorrow morning and we can go over the menu for the weekend, unless you’re able to get in contact with Brienne in which case I’ll be in earlier.”

“If you’re doing paperwork, I can probably find some of my own to do.” Jon held her gaze for a moment before sighing, scrubbing a hand over the nape of his neck. “Nobody leaves the restaurant alone after close. Safety reasons.”

“Safety reasons. Of course.” The North might not be the uncivilized wasteland people in the South believed it to be but that didn’t mean it was free from troubles. Besides, anybody in the industry knew—and feared—the possibility of an after-hours assault while walking across a parking lot alone. Sansa nodded. “I should have remembered. It’s fine. I can handle the paperwork in the morning.”

“No, it’s cool, really. If I get too tired, I’ll take a nap on the sofa.” He leaned forward, patting it with one hand. “Seems comfortable enough.”

“Why do you think I bought it?” She realized, with only the slightest degree of shock, that she wasn’t concerned about being alone with Jon for an extended period of time so much as she was concerned they’d both fall asleep over their paperwork. “One hour and then we can leave.”

“Fine with me. Just let me grab my stuff from my office.” He stood, crossing the room and opening the door only to pause with his hand on the frame. “Why don’t you remember the last time you had lemon cakes?”

Sansa blinked. “There hasn’t been anyone who wanted to make them for me.”

Jon stared at her for a moment and then nodded, stepping into the hall but leaving the door ajar, her simple—and oddly heartbreaking—explanation echoing in his mind as he walked through the empty restaurant.


	4. Setback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell continues to improve. So does Sansa.
> 
> Until she doesn't.
> 
> (Warning: Mention of previous abuse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks so much for all comments/kudos. I'm happy to hear that you're all enjoying the story and the pacing and the relationships being built between the various characters. This chapter is slightly longer than previous chapters, primarily because the events within demanded it be so.
> 
> As noted in the chapter description, there are mentions of previous abuse. I don't go into great detail because while the event in and of itself is important to the story, (especially since, as previously stated, this is primarily based on the show) and the background and the future actions and motivations of certain characters, I'm not, to be blunt, writing torture porn. Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Finally, to everyone who commented about lemon cakes--don't worry. They'll be making an appearance in due time.
> 
> As always, happy reading!

The next four weeks passed, for the most part, uneventfully. After an interview which was more for form’s sake than anything else, Brienne was brought on as maître d’, sliding into the position with quiet strength, immediately changing the tone of the front of the house. A handful of the servers, Myranda among them, quit within the first week, something Sansa had anticipated as soon as she’d made her expectations concerning the quality of their work known. Jon and Brienne had called on connections and called in favors to fill the vacancies, keeping the restaurant running without even the slightest hitch.

At the end of every shift, Jon and Sansa met in her office, discussing what had—and hadn’t worked—that evening. Their plan to include more seasonal offerings had met with rousing success while their effort at incorporating dishes from the far North, primarily at Tormund’s insistence, had garnered a lukewarm reception. The single time Jon had suggested a tasting menu of Southern dishes, Sansa had changed the subject with a lack of skill and grace which was unlike her. Jon had conceded to her unspoken wishes, adding the strangeness to the growing list of odd behaviors he’d witnessed.

She almost always sat with her back to the wall, in a position which allowed her to see any and all doors. While she’d apparently grown used to Jon, she still shied away from all the other male employees, making sure to keep an arms’ length or more between her and them unless doing so was impossible. With the exception of their evening meetings, her office door was never unlocked.

And she always, always, wore long sleeves.

Even now, with the kitchen slowly filling up with heat and humidity, she wore long sleeves, the edges dusted with flour from the dough she was kneading as she dutifully listened to the young man—apparently a friend of Arya’s from high school—who refused to answer to anything other than Hot Pie explain the importance of the kneading process in creating gluten. Jon watched them out of the corner of his eye, only half listening to Tormund as he complained about the lack of results in his latest efforts to woo Brienne. Hot Pie was as harmless as a person could be, more harmless even than Podrick, the young man Brienne had brought in as her assistant. And yet Sansa stiffened anytime he moved so much as an inch closer and even as Jon watched, she flinched and shifted away as Hot Pie brushed against her as he leaned over to examine her dough. He said something to her and she hesitated, her unease painfully apparent, before pushing up her sleeves and returning to her kneading.

Even across the room, Jon could make out each individual scar, their delicate thinness, the almost artistic way they curved over her forearms and up toward her elbow before disappearing again under her sleeves. When he realized he was staring, he turned toward Tormund only to find the other man studying his cousin with an unusually serious expression. Jon nudged the other man, frowning when he only continued to stare in Sansa’s direction. “Tormund. Eel pie. You were saying…?”

“You should go see to her.” Tormund nodded toward Sansa. “Before it gets worse.”

Jon glanced over his shoulder to find that, apparently finished with the kneading, Hot Pie was now explaining the shaping and scoring process for the famed Winterfell loaves. Instead of listening, however, Sansa stared unseeing at the loaves, flinching every time Hot Pie drew the razor over the surface of the dough. She pressed her left hand to her right arm, rubbing at the scars, color leaching from her face until her skin was ghost white, nearly translucent. Her lips were nearly as bloodless as her face, trembling, her entire body seeming to shake with each ragged inhale and exhale.

Jon crossed the room with measured steps, being sure to make more noise than necessary—the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was startle his cousin, not when she looked mere breaths away from breaking down. Reaching the bread station, he rapped his knuckles on the wooden work surface, interrupting Hot Pie’s impassioned lecture. “Sansa, you wanted me to remind you to check with Greyjoy about the upcoming advertising campaign.”

She shifted her gaze to him, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked once, twice, and Jon saw her come back to herself enough to nod. She swallowed twice before managing to whisper, “Yes. I did. Thank you.” Even forced, her smile as she turned to Hot Pie was gracious. “And thank you for showing me your work. I’m very committed to learning the cornerstones of our kitchen.” She gave Jon a short nod before walking out of the kitchen at a brisk pace just shy of a run, shoving her sleeves back into place as she went.

“You’re not to do that again when Ms. Stark’s in the kitchen.” Jon nodded at the razor still gripped in the younger man’s hand. “The scoring. I’ll see to it you have a private workspace out of the main flow.” Jon reached over, gripping his shoulder. “You’ve done nothing wrong, so you’re not to worry about that. Just….” Jon trailed off, not sure what to say.

“I understand.” Hot Pie set the razor down, wiping his hands on his apron. “I saw but I didn’t want to say anything because….”

“Yes.” His cousin wouldn’t appreciate people acknowledging what she no doubt considered a weakness. “Well, you’ve a lot to get through. I’ll leave you to it.”

Returning to where Tormund stood, still with that unnatural seriousness on his face, Jon picked up his water bottle, chugging half the contents in a single sip. Exhaling harshly, he set the bottle down, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Sorry. We were talking about eel pie, right?”

“How much did you say your cousin had to pay Bolton? Baelish?”

Jon blinked. “She didn’t. She said the company donated to various women’s groups, offered new jobs to the women who were fired, and offered them a cash settlement as well. She said nothing about Bolton or Baelish.”

“Bolton came on with a five year contract and he’d only worked out three years. There might have been a clause in there concerning moral turpitude but since none of the women pressed formal charges the Queen probably wasn’t able to use that, or use only that, to force him out.” Tormund crossed his arms, his attention focused across the room where Hot Pie had resumed scoring the batch of loaves. “Your cousin would have had to buy him out in some way and while Bolton liked cash, no amount of money would have been enough to soothe his ego at being pushed out of Winterfell.”

Jon turned until he was able to watch Hot Pie as well, the younger man slashing the dough with quick, precise flicks of his wrist. “What would have been enough?”

“The Boltons are of the North. Like the Starks. And like them, they keep the old ways, use the old sigils in clever, new ways.” Tormund glanced at Jon. “Do you know what the Bolton sigil was?”

Jon nodded. “The Flayed Man.”

“You can’t flay people anymore—thank the gods for that.” Tormund sighed, a hint of sadness creeping into his eyes. “But it doesn’t mean the Boltons haven’t found other uses for their knives.”

Jon nodded again, watching Hot Pie score another loaf, thinking about the scars on Sansa’s arms.

*****

By the time Jon knocked on her office door at the end of the shift, Sansa had regained control of herself. Mostly. After she’d left the kitchen, she’d barely managed to make it to the ensuite in her office before throwing up violently, repeatedly, until her head pounded and her entire body ached. She’d laid on the bathroom floor for close to an hour, too weak—physically and mentally—to move. Finally, she’d crawled into the shower, running the water so hot it’d left her skin an angry red before scrubbing herself from head to toe. When she’d stepped out, she’d almost felt clean.

Almost.

She’d put herself back together before the first of the dinner services, working the dining room, her lips curved in a faint smile, her hands clasped at her waist in an effort to camouflage their shakiness. She’d resisted the urge to take one of the pills prescribed by Dr. Wolken, preferring to remain clear-headed. The pills helped with the anxiety, yes, but they also made her the slightest bit drowsy, the slightest bit slow, which simply wasn’t an option while she was working. She would take one before she went to bed that night, along with a sleeping pill, because she already knew tonight was a night for nightmares.

The first few weeks, she’d have multiple ones in a single night, until she was barely sleeping at all. It had been the younger of the new lawyers, Sam Tarly, who’d suggested she speak with a doctor, implying it was stress from her last semester of school and her impending takeover of the restaurant which had combined to produce the insomnia. The pity on his face, the way he and Davos had both handled—continued to handle—her as if she was the most fragile of porcelain, told her that while she might have been able to fool the majority of her acquaintances, she hadn’t been able to fool them. So she’d gone to Wolken, who had given her a prescription for a sleeping aid and a separate prescription for the near-constant anxiety and urged her to seek out a therapist. Sansa had thanked him for the medications and the medical advice, using the former and ignoring the latter.

Gradually, the nightmares had diminished in both frequency and intensity. She’d unpacked her kitchen knives, although she’d yet to use them. She no longer forgot to breathe when she looked at the scars on her arms and torso and she no longer felt phantom pain from the ones on her back. She could be in a room alone with a man without feeling the need for a weapon. She’d believed, wholeheartedly, she had put that week behind her.

And then she’d almost broken down in the kitchen, merely because of scored bread.

Pasting on a bright smile, she looked up from the projections for next week, gesturing Jon in and toward the other end of the sofa currently covered in paperwork. “You can move those if you want. I tend to spread out everywhere if I’m not careful.”

“It’s okay.” He took the chair opposite her, studying her face, his gaze intense. “I’d like to talk with you.”

“I think we should consider adding a steak and kidney pie to our non-rotating menu. It’s a good, Northern dish, one our older patron can appreciate, but which we can update for the younger crowd who—.”

“Sansa.” Jon interrupted what was quickly becoming a ramble, reaching over and taking the paperwork from her, setting it on the coffee table between them. He hesitated for a moment before taking her hand, holding it loosely between his. “Please talk with me.”

She forced herself to laugh, her heart hammering in her chest. “I’m trying to but—.”

“Sansa.” He squeezed her hand gently. “Please.”

For a moment, she considered lying. Continuing to pretend she had no idea what he was asking. And then she met his gaze, his eyes full of patient understanding, and she realized she desperately wanted—no, _needed_ —to tell him.

“Firing Bolton… if we’d been able to do it, he would have done his best to bankrupt us. None of the women he’d harassed were willing to press charges, even willing to give a formal statement, and nothing he’d done as far as management could be considered improper or destructive. So if we’d fired him, we would have been forced to pay double the remainder of his promised salary. So Baelish brokered a deal.”

“Baelish brokered a deal.”

“One day for each year left in Bolton’s contract.” Sansa paused, taking a deep breath, but when she spoke again her voice still carried a faint tremble. “Nothing life-threatening, nothing visible, but otherwise….” She trailed off, her unspoken words hanging in the air between them. “For himself, Baelish wanted a day for each year he’d served as the trustee for the estate or he’d leak the details of the arrangement with Bolton, leak them in such a way it would permanently ruin my reputation, would make what happened my sophomore year at Red Keep look like child’s play.”

Jon vaguely recalled rumors about Sansa and someone named Joffery and a whirlwind relationship and engagement that was called off within weeks of being announced in the papers. Tucking that away for another time, he squeezed her hand again. “And so you agreed.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Her voice broke and she blinked, a single tear slipping free, clinging to her lower lashes for a moment before sliding down her cheek, her gaze dropping to their hands. “If I’d let Bolton work out his contract, he would have ran Winterfell into the ground even further than he’d already managed to do and Baelish… I knew as soon as I gave him what he wanted, he wouldn’t want it again. It’s the chase, the power play, he cares about, nothing else.”

“Sansa, look at me.” He waited until she did, careful to keep his voice level, even as he imagined beating both Bolton and Baelish within an inch of their lives. “You have nothing to be ashamed of—nothing. You did what you had to do for your family. Nobody would dare think less of you for that.”

“ _I_ think less of me.” Her face crumbled, the mask dissolving, and she was suddenly the girl he remembered from childhood, crying over a skinned knee, but this was a hundred, a thousand, a million times worse. “I think less of me.”

Instead of answering, Jon pulled her up from the sofa and over into his lap, holding her as she sobbed against his shoulder, her entire body shaking so violently he wondered how her bones didn’t break. He didn’t offer comforting words or platitudes—what use were trite sayings in the face of such overwhelming pain? So he simply sat silent and let her cling to him, weeping out her fear and shame and grief, until her sobs quieted to whimpers and her whimpers to ragged breaths and finally, finally, she sighed and fell quiet.

After long minutes, her breathing slowed even further and Jon realized she’d cried herself to sleep, which presented something of a problem. He didn’t want to wake her, not when it was clear she was exhausted, and he found himself unwilling to let her go just yet, but neither of them would be comfortable sleeping in the chair all night. Tucking his arm under her legs, he stood, moving slowly, shifting until they were on the sofa. Twisting until he was able to stretch out, he pushed the various papers off the far end of the sofa with one foot before toeing off his shoes. It took an effort, especially since every time he moved her would whimper in her sleep, but he managed to pull off Sansa’s shoes as well, dropping them on top of the now disorganized papers. He tugged the knitted throw—he recognized the pattern as one of Catelyn’s—over them both and closed his eyes, willing himself to think of the menu for the next week, of shifting Pyp from the saucier station to the entremetier station, specifically to the position of potanger chef, of the Northern Restaurant Week scheduled in three months.

But all he could think about was Sansa alone with Bolton. Alone with Baelish.

All he could think about was Sansa weeping in shame.

And then all he could think about, until exhaustion claimed him, was how he planned to make Bolton and Baelish pay for every tear and every scar.


	5. Tasting Menu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a taste....
> 
> (Warning: Sexual Content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to those who read/comment/leave kudos. Your appreciation is an inspiration (which will be the only poetry you will ever receive from me so cherish it).
> 
> As you can see in the very brief chapter summary, it's happening--no, not THAT, but the beginning of sexual content. It's an odd mix of PG-13 and smut but I think it fits their blossoming relationship.
> 
> And, of course, happy reading!

Sansa woke slowly, swimming up to consciousness through a sea of exhaustion. As she got closer to the surface, details began to seep in—like the fact she definitely wasn’t in her own bed. And she definitely wasn’t alone. She started to struggle, instinctively, her breath catching in her lungs as the arm around her tightened, before she recognized a familiar scent—cotton, crisp air, and the faintest hint of sugar.

Jon.

Her entire body went limp with relief and she sighed, pressing her cheek against what she realized was Jon’s shoulder. After a moment, she opened her eyes, leaning back until she was able to study his face. In sleep, his face looked innocent, almost boyish, the shadow of a beard adding a roguish element. A faint-half moon scar curved around his eye, a relic of a childhood fight between him and Robb as they’d played Knights of the Round Table; Sansa, of course, had been the princess, while Arya and Rickon had been dragons and Bran had been the bard, writing and later performing a song about the entire adventure for their parents.

This close, she was able to see each individual eyelash, criminally thick and long and curly. And when he suddenly half-opened his eyes, peering at her from under those lashes, she could see the flecks of light in his stone-gray eyes. He cleared his throat but his voice was still scratchy when he spoke. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Suddenly shy, she lowered her gaze until she was staring at his chin. “I, uh—.”

“You were exhausted and fell asleep and instead of waking you up and hoping you didn’t fall asleep while you were driving, I decided it would be easier for us both to just sleep here.” Some of the sleep cleared from his eyes and he lifted his brows. “That’s what you were going to ask, right? How we wound up on this remarkably comfortable sofa?”

“Right.” She swallowed. “And I wanted to say thank—.”

“Don’t.” He reached up, stopping her with a single finger on her lips. “Don’t thank me for that.” He brushed the hair back from her face, his fingertips soft against her cheek. “If anything, I—all of us—should be thanking you. You did more, far more, than anyone else would do. You did far more than anyone else _should_ have done.” He trailed a finger down the line of her jaw. “Tormund was right to call you a queen. The Queen.”

Sansa swallowed again, her voice barely above a murmur. “You’re going to make me blush.”

“You are blushing.” Jon cupped her cheek, lightly, a whisper of his skin against hers. “You smell like lemons. You always smell like lemons.”

Without conscious thought, she closed her eyes, leaning closer. “It’s my perfume.”

“I wonder….” He trailed off and Sansa held her breath, feeling him shift under her. “I wonder if you taste like lemons, too.”

The seconds stretched out and Sansa began to wonder if she’d misread the situation, if she’d imagined something there when there was nothing—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d made such a stupid, stupid mistake— and then Jon pressed his lips to hers, softly, almost hesitantly, sweetly chaste.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been kissed—she had, after all, been engaged, if only for a handful of weeks. But Joffery’s kisses had been perfunctory—or cruel, punishment for some imagined slight or lapse in etiquette. And Baelish… she wouldn’t think of Baelish, forced herself not to compare his sweaty, grasping, possessiveness with the miracle she was experiencing.

Because it was a miracle, being kissed like this, as if she was precious, treasured. As if she was a woman, just a woman, and not an heiress or the key to success in the North. After Joffery, after Bolton, after Baelish, she’d believed, wholeheartedly, it was impossible for any man to want her, Sansa Stark. But the way Jon kissed her, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real, couldn’t believe the moment was real, and she knew, down to her soul, that he wanted _her_.

So she was the one who deepened the kiss, slowly, not wanting to break whatever spell had been woven to bring this dream to reality. When he sighed, gliding his tongue over her lower lip, she opened her mouth wider, murmuring low in her throat when he slipped his tongue past her lips, stroking her own tongue, coaxing another murmur of approval from her.

She realized, vaguely, his free hand was working in her hair, pulling pins loose, until the sleep-mussed mass tumbled down around her shoulders and over his chest. He shifted her until she was sprawled over him, her hair falling around them like a curtain, blocking out the low light from her desk lamp. He threaded one hand through her hair, cradling the base of her skull, while the other rested in the small of her back, a solid, warm presence even though her dress which, instead of making her feel trapped, made her feel… restless.

She wanted to know what his hand, with its scars and callouses—the proof of his fight, his victory, on the battlefield of the kitchen—felt like against her bare skin.

Emboldened, she thrust her tongue into his mouth, his low moan stirring something low inside her, and she shifted until she was able to straddle him, the skirt of her dress riding dangerously high on her thighs. Jon started to slide his hand lower, freezing when his fingertips brushed bare skin. He broke the kiss but didn’t pull away, his ragged breaths mingling with hers. “Sansa.”

“I want you to touch me.” She crushed her lips against his, her pulse hammering, her blood rushing in her ears. Drawing back, she whispered, “Please. Just a little.”

“Where?” He slipped his hand under her skirt, skimming his fingertips over her thigh. “Here?”

“Yes.” Suddenly struggling to breath, she rested her forehead against his, their lips barely touching. “But I want….”

“Or here?” He inched his fingers higher and she opened her eyes to find him watching her, his gaze intense. When she flicked her tongue over her lips, wetting his at the same time, he let out a stuttering breath before sliding his hand even higher. “Here?”

“Yes.” She nodded, her own breath hitching in her lungs. “But I want—.”

“What?” Another glide of his hand and his fingertips were there, just there, brushing the edge of her underwear, and she realized she was more than a little wet. “Tell me, Sansa, what does the Queen want?”

She pressed her face to the curve of his neck, suddenly embarrassed, muffling her answer against his skin. “I want you to touch my….” She trailed off, her embarrassment flaming higher, threatening to overtake the lovely glow of arousal.

“Flower? Petals? Pussy? Cunt?” Sansa moaned and Jon chuckled, the sound as dark and rich as chocolate. “Oh, you sweet, filthy girl.” He lowered his voice even as he began to stroke her through her now undeniably wet underwear. “Do you like hearing me say such dirty, nasty things?” There was a distinct note of approval as he hummed low in his throat, one finger pressing unerringly to her clit. “I think you do.”

“Yes.” Feeling braver, she kissed the spot where his pulse beat none too steadily, moving her hips against his hand. “Do you like touching my….” She trailed off again, hesitating for a moment before whispering, “Cunt?”

He tightened his grip in her hair, tilting her head back until he was once again able to take her mouth, harsher this time, even as his fingers continued to play gently over her folds and clit. When he broke the kiss, he rasped out, “You’re going to cum and when you do, you’re going to soak that pretty dress for me.”

She had no idea where it came from, the boldness, but she pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth and whispered, “Make me.”

“Fuck.” He scraped one nail over her clit and she bucked her hips against his hand, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. “You’ve always been a brat.” He repeated the gesture and this time she couldn’t hold back a moan of pleasure, her eyes fluttering closed for a split second before his grip in her hair forced them open. “I should spank you.” He increased the pressure of his fingers, watching her face as she shamelessly ground against his hand. “Some other time, though. Right now, I want to watch you cum. And I want you to look at me when you do.”

“Jon.” His name came out more a whimper than anything else and she watched as his pupils dilated, the black nearly swallowing the gray. “I need—.”

“I know what you need.” As if to prove he did, he concentrated all his attention on her clit, his breathing nearly as ragged as hers. “Cum for me, Sansa. Cum all over my fingers so I can lick them clean, so I can know exactly how you’ll taste when I put my mouth on you, when I use my tongue on you and make you cum until you can’t think of anything but me and cumming for me again and again and—.”

She came with a low moan, her entire body tensing, her thighs trapping his hand against her cunt. Even as the waves of release radiated through her, he brought her to a second peak and then a third, until she was shaking, almost sobbing, her mind almost fuzzy from the rapid-fire orgasms. Through the haze of sensation, she heard Jon murmuring, telling her how beautiful she was, how amazing she was, what a good girl she was, and she thought, crazily, she might die from the overload of pleasure.

Finally, after long, long minutes, she calmed, her breathing slowing, her muscles relaxing. Jon brushed his fingers over her now absolutely soaked underwear—and no doubt, at this point, dress—before sliding his hand free. Without shifting his gaze from hers, he licked each finger clean, his sounds of approval almost obscene, and Sansa felt her cheeks begin to burn.

“I’m going to enjoy looking up from between your thighs and seeing you blush.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “You’re beautiful when you cum.”

Sansa felt the flush deepen. “Thank you.”

“And so polite.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I suppose we should get up. We’ve still got a few hours before we have to be here for the staff meeting. Gives us time to grab showers, a few more hours sleep.”

“Oh.” Sansa nodded, feeling unreasonably hurt. “Right.”

“Sansa.” Jon opened his eyes. “I want you. Gods, do I want you.” He scratched her scalp and Sansa nearly purred. “But I also think we should take this slow.” He paused, studying her for a moment. “Some of the things I like, the things which I enjoy doing, they may not be for you. And we need to know that before we’re in the middle of a scene.”

Sansa swallowed. “What kind of things?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Jon sat up, forcing Sansa to do the same, brushing the hair away from her face. “Never like that. But some of what we did just now—the language, the control, the possibility of mild punishment—I enjoy those kinds of games.” He cupped her cheek, pressing his thumb to her lower lip. “Not all the time, because a scene—which would be the correct terminology—is taxing for both parties but I do enjoy them.”

Sansa stared for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. Finally, she said, “And if I wanted to find out more about these… games?”

“There are books, obviously, and on-line resources. And we can talk.” He scraped his nail over her lower lip, biting his own when she hummed low in her throat. “Experiment. You have the power—if you want a scene to end, if you’re uncomfortable, you say the safeword and it’s over.”

“But you said you like being in control.”

“Only when the other person wants me to be in control.” He shook his head. “Otherwise… well, it’s not a game anymore, is it?” He leaned forward and kissed her, soft and sweet. “Go home and sleep on it. We’ll talk after shift.”

“Okay.” She started to sit then thought better of it—she could dry clean the dress. A wet spot on the sofa would be harder to clean. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“In a few hours.” He stood, slipping his shoes on before adjusting his pants. Walking toward the door, he paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Would you do one thing for me?”

“Of course.”

“Whatever dress you wear, don’t wear underwear.”

Sansa blinked. “No underwear?”

Jon grinned. “I’ll make it worth your while. I promise.”


	6. Amuse-Bouche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As plans begin for Restaurant Week, Sansa and Jon begin their own decadent meal.
> 
> (Warning: Sexual Content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to those who read/comment/leave kudos. It's nice to know you all appreciate smut as much as much as I do. (I'm joking--a little--but not really)
> 
> This chapter ended up being quite a bit longer than normal--I think it's close to 4200 words, which is almost 50% longer than the last chapter. We've got a lot of plot setup, a lot of character name dropping, and, for those readers with dirty, dirty minds, close to 2200 words of absolute smut. Is it heavy on the praise kink? Yes--for one, write what you love, and for two, I'm pretty sure Sansa could use some positive reinforcement.
> 
> For those of you who might not be aware, an amuse-bouche is sort of a pre-appetizer, something which would come gratis before an extravagant, multi-course meal. Consider this a hint as to the titles for future chapters and their potential content (wink, wink).
> 
> And now--happy reading!

“Okay, everybody, let’s try and settle down.” Sansa looked around the table at the upper level staff, careful to not keep her gaze on Jon for longer than would be considered normal or professional. He’d greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, not unusual, especially as he then gave the same greeting to Gilly and Brienne, but his hand his lingered in the small of her back for five heady seconds before he turned away to answer some question from Tormund. Shoving the memory aside, she said, “I’d like for us to go over the sales and the service issues for the previous week before moving on to the main discussion.”

“Sales, sales, sales.” Tormund rolled his eyes, shooting a grin at Brienne who, as usual, ignored him, her tablet and stylus on the table in front of her, her attention on Sansa. “Food is about art, about passion, not about money.”

“Art and passion don’t pay the bills and keep the doors open.” Sansa tapped the screen of her own tablet, bringing up the numbers from the week before, waiting until the others had done the same. “You can see we’re making headway on gaining back those guests we lost under the previous management team. Still, we’re going to have to continue to improve if we want to reach and then surpass the numbers seen under my parents.” She glanced at Brienne. “Out of the current serving staff, how many would you say either need to be retrained or replaced entirely?”

“Most of the weaker servers left in the mass exodus shortly after you took over and the ones who are struggling at the moment are recent hires. I would suggest holding an intensive training session—perhaps two full days, eight hours each day—to smooth out the rough edges and separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were.” Brienne looked at Podrick, his pleasant yet unexceptional face creased in a vague smile. “I would not, the moment, recommend hiring any additional employees simply because you won’t be able to train them all effectively. I’ve always believed it better to have a tight core of highly competent staff as opposed to a castle’s worth of incompetent individuals.”

“I think—.” Gilly broke off, flushing when everybody turned to look at her. She swallowed then straightened, squaring her shoulders. “I think you need to seriously consider letting Smalljon Umber and Harald Karstark go. I know they’ve been with the company a long time—.”

“They were two of my parents’ original hires.” Sansa sat back in her chair. “Why do you feel they need to be removed from their positions?”

“They were closer to Bolton than any of the other front of house staff—well, with the exception of Myranda, but that was for a different reason.” Gilly’s face flamed even redder and she stammered unintelligibly for a moment before recovering. “I can’t say for certain, because I didn’t have any type of access to the system under Bolton, but I suspect they were fudging the counts on the wine inventory and then selling on the side.” She took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling. “And I’m almost certain they’re still in contact with him.”

“Really.” Sansa shifted her gaze to Jon, watching her with an implacable expression. “Did you notice any inventory issues in the kitchen?”

“No, but then again Tormund and I do the inventory for the back of the house; we keep a hard copy and a copy on a thumbnail drive in addition to the one uploaded to the cloud.” Jon shrugged when Sansa lifted a brow in silent question. “I didn’t trust Bolton. And after he came on, I didn’t trust Umber and Karstark, either.”

“Brienne, I’d like you to contact Mr. Tarly and have him schedule an audit of the wine sales and inventory for the last six—no, make it twelve—months. I’d also like you contact Mr. Davos and see when he’s available to have a sit-down with me so we can review the employment contracts signed by Umber and Karstark.” Sansa folded her hands in her lap, turning over the possible outcomes for her next move. After a moment, she said, “Put out feelers, see who is unhappy in their current positions, who would be willing to come on as sommelier and bar manager. Salary commiserate with experience and education.”

Podrick lifted his hand, waiting until Sansa nodded before speaking. “They both have children working in various positions. Alys Karstark is a server’s assistant, one of the better ones, while Ned Umber is a busboy.”

“And both Alys and Ned are free to stay on, provided they weren’t involved in the duplicity of their fathers.” Sansa forced herself to soften her voice, struggling to bring her temper under control. “I don’t punish children for the sins of their parents.” She waited a beat before continuing. “We’ll schedule a training camp for three weeks from now. That will give us time to prepare our guests for the change in operating hours. I’d also like to use the time we’re closed to do some minor renovations—paint, carpeting, lighting, some updates to the general décor—so let’s see about booking a separate space for the training. Moving on….” She tapped her tablet again, bringing it out of sleep mode and staring at the screen for a moment. “We have three months until Restaurant Week.”

“We haven’t taken top honors there since your parents died.” Tormund tapped a finger on the table, his expression and tone serious for once. “I’m hearing talk about a new restaurant group forming—Blood and Fire, Ltd. The primary share owner has had some success across the Narrow Sea and she’s looking to expand her reach.”

“Rumor has it Tyrion Lannister is in charge of the group’s public relations and media.” Jon stared at Sansa, wondering what was going on behind her perfectly blank face and trying not wonder if she’d followed his suggestion/instruction concerning her clothing. “He was your mentor when you were in school down South, wasn’t he?”

“I’d argue ‘mentor’ was too strong a word for our relationship but he did provide some much needed guidance at critical times.” She shook her head. “We haven’t been in contact since he left Red Keep two, maybe three years ago. He’s not going to be a viable source of information.”

“Another rumor is Blood and Fire has hired Greyjoy Advertising to launch their presence here in the North.” Jon cocked his head. “Should we be worried our person—Theon, isn’t it—will be leaking secrets?”

“Theon owes me.” She didn’t expand on the nature of his debt and Jon made a mental note to ask her about it later. “If this group has hired Greyjoy, they’re probably working with Yara. She has seniority at the firm and if this group is eying a takeover of the region they won’t waste their time with a junior member.” She waved the potential enemy aside. “I’m more concerned with Lion and Stag. They recently purchased RiverRun, which while technically not in the North, is still eligible to participate in Restaurant Week.”

“Joffery Baratheon has placed his uncle, Jamie Lannister, in charge of RiverRun.” Brienne’s voice was oddly strained and Sansa frowned as delicate color flooded the other woman’s face. Next to her, Podrick took a sudden and intense interest in the painting of the map of Westeros which dominated the opposite wall. “Despite his reputation for ruthlessness, I’ve found him honorable.”

“Jamie Lannister?” Tormund frowned. “Is he the one who lost his hand in some sort of kitchen accident?”

“Meat grinder.” Brienne’s face grew even redder, until it all but glowed. “At first the doctors thought he’d just lose his fingers but infection set in and they were forced to amputate.”

“I remember.” Sansa repressed a shudder, not at the topic itself but at the memory of Joffery mocking his uncle in front of their family and friends at the one Yule party she’d attended. “Honorable or not, Jamie Lannister is our competition.” She glanced at Brienne, waiting until the other woman reluctantly met her gaze before continuing. “I trust you won’t let your personal relationship with him, whatever it might be, overshadow that.”

“Of course not.” Brienne straightened. “My first priority is to Winterfell and the Starks.”

“Which I appreciate more than I can say.” Sansa turned her attention to Jon and Tormund, the former watching her with a look in his eyes which set her skin tingling while the latter stared at Brienne in question. “I know in years past we’ve stuck with a fairly standard nine-course meal. This year, I’d like to up our game considerably.”

Jon waited a beat. “Seventeen courses? Or twenty-one?”

“Seventeen.” Sansa waited for the shocked murmurs to die down before continuing. “Focused exclusively on the North. I want to truly show what Northern food is, its diversity, its range, and most importantly, its deliciousness.”

“That’s… well, that’s a lot of dishes.” Tormund scrubbed his hand over his beard. “I’m going to assume you don’t want to pull from our current rotation.”

“No—everything will be a first-time offering.” She stared at Jon. “Let’s spend three weeks researching possibilities, three weeks firming up the menu itself, and then the remaining six weeks perfecting each dish.” She glanced at the calendar open on her tablet. “We’ll do three dry runs the week before Restaurant Week, exclusively for family and friends.”

“If I could….” Gilly trailed off, staring at her hands for a moment before taking a deep breath, lifting her gaze to Sansa. “I think it would be a good idea if, for one of the dry ones, we have residents of one of the local women’s shelters as our guests. First, because it’s always a good idea to be involved with local charities and second, it would help erase any lingering image issues left over from the previous management.” When Sansa simply continued to sit silently, Gilly said, “I know the director of The Keep, which is a shelter for specifically for women with children.”

“Brienne.” Sansa shifted her attention to the other woman. “Get with Gilly, see about setting up an appointment with the director of The Keep. I’m not sure how child-friendly our menu will be for Restaurant Week but it might be a nice evening out for the women.” She put her tablet into sleep mode and stood, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. “That’s it for today. Brienne, you can email me updates on your conversations with the lawyers and with the director, as well as any potential new hires. Podrick, you and Gilly can start working on the structure for the training camp. Jon, Tormund, if you need any extra help with menu research, feel free to tap me.”

“Tormund, get the rest of the back of house together—the ones that are here, anyway—and start tossing out ideas.” Jon gave his second in command the barest of glances before bringing his gaze back to Sansa. “Sansa, if I could have a word with you about the menu tonight.”

“Of course.” She hoped she was the only one who heard the slight hitch in her voice. “Let’s go to my office.”

Jon made small talk as they wound their way through the service hallways and up the stairs, careful to keep a step aside and ahead of her. Entering the office first, he waited until she shut and, after a second’s hesitation, locked the door, before closing the space between them, using his body to press her against the wood. He lifted one hand, pressing his palm to the door just to the side of her face, smiling a little when her eyes widened, the firm line of her mouth softening. “Hello, Sansa.”

“Jon.” She stretched out her arm, tipping the tablet onto the arm of the sofa. Swallowing, she said, “You wanted to talk about tonight’s menu? Is there a problem with inventory—.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

Sansa blinked. “What?”

“I thought instead of simply having a post-shift meeting we could have dinner.” He leaned closer, almost eye-level with her thanks to her flats, his breath fanning over her cheek. She fought back the urge to close her eyes although she wasn’t able to control her shiver. “So—what do you want for dinner?”

“You’ll think it’s silly.”

“Tormund eats pizza rolls after every shift.” Jon grinned when Sansa dropped her jaw. “Pyp is a little better, in that he’ll actually cook a meal, but all he cooks is grilled cheese. I promise you, nothing you tell me will be silly.”

“Ramen noodles.” She giggled when he rolled his eyes and let out a mock groan. “When I was in school, I was always studying or working so I never had time to cook anything which wasn’t for a grade.”

“So ramen noodles.” He chuckled, lifting his other hand and trailing a finger down her jaw. “Such a typical college kid meal. Okay—I can’t promise it’ll taste like whatever sort of packet nonsense you had back then but I’ll make you ramen noodles.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there for a moment before lifting back to her eyes. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

He didn’t give her time to answer—as if she could have thought of a reasonable one to such a statement—closing the minute distance between them, pressing his lips to hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her body against his, shivering again when he groaned low in his throat. He nipped her lower lip, sliding his tongue over the tiny hurt before thrusting into her mouth, coaxing her own response, groaning again when she sucked on his tongue with no hesitation, her hips moving restlessly against his.

Pulling back slightly, he rasped out, “I thought about you when I woke up this morning, alone in my bed.” He unwound one of her hands, sliding it down his torso and pressing it to the front of his black chef pants. “Do you feel how hard I am? That’s how hard I was when I woke up, when I thought about you, cumming all over my fingers like a good girl.” Releasing her hand, he grabbed the skirt of her dress and began tugging it upward. “And when I was in the shower, stroking my cock, I thought about which one of your lady-like dresses you were going to wear, wondering how long I was going to have to wait to find out if you’d done what I asked.” He kept pulling until the hem of her dress was level with her hips, his fingertips gliding over her inner thigh. “And you did.” He kissed her again, a soft brush of his lips over hers. “You’re such a good girl.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the door, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called good—it had, in fact, been how she was most often referred to: a good girl, a dutiful daughter, a model student. But the way Jon said those words… the way his voice dipped lower, almost to a growl, the way he gripped her just a little tighter… it made her want to do anything, anything, if he would call her a good girl again.

“Good girls deserve rewards.” She felt him sliding down her body and a moment later she felt his breath over her already sensitive, already wet—she’d been wet all morning, almost from the moment she’d slipped on her dress; sitting across the room from him for almost an hour, trying not to think about his fingers inside her or the way he’d sucked those fingers clean or his pointed statement about being between her thighs the next time he tasted her had only heightened her arousal, made it almost a living, breathing presence—skin and she reached for him to steady herself only to gasp when he suddenly lifted her right leg, resting her knee on his shoulder, forcing her to shift her stance, opening herself wider for him. “Would my good girl like a reward?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Use your words, good girl.” He dragged his teeth down her inner thigh, not deep enough to leave a mark, only to set her skin tingling. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want….” She trailed off, swallowing hard, forcing herself to take deep breaths. Opening her eyes, she stared down at him, his face—his mouth—inches away from where she wanted— _needed_ —it. Flicking her tongue over her lips, she said, her voice clear and firm, “I want your mouth on my cunt. Please.”

“Hmm, there’s my good girl.” Gripping her thigh, he leaned in, pressing a surprisingly sweet kiss to the mound above her clit. And then, before Sansa could ask if that was all there was, he dragged his tongue down her folds, using the fingers of his other hand to gently open them before slicking his tongue upward, giving her clit the barest tap before sliding his tongue down again.

She choked out something between a moan and a gasp, threading her fingers in his hair, needing some sort of anchor. Dropping her chin toward her chest, she started to close her eyes, forcing them open when he drew back and whispered, “No, good girl. Eyes on me, at least a little.” When she met his gaze under her lashes, he said, “There you are. I want you to watch as I give you your reward for being such a good girl.”

She shuddered when he pressed his mouth to her cunt again, his tongue warm and wet, his beard rough, his lips soft. Instead of focusing on her clit, where she really wanted, the bundle of nerves all but throbbing in its desire for attention, he moved lower, flicking his tongue over the entrance to her body, sliding a single finger inside, opening her, stretching her, before sliding his finger free and replacing it with his tongue. She sucked in a deep breath, sinking her teeth into her lower lip until it ached, wiggling against his mouth until he moved the hand on her thigh to her hip, pressing her back against the door.

She rode his tongue with the same abandon she’d rode her fingers the previous night, giving herself over to the pleasure coursing through her body. She started to shiver, her inner muscles tightening around his tongue, and then she groaned when he pulled back, breaking contact with her contact with a wet slurp which would have been embarrassing if she didn’t need him and his mouth and his fingers so much. “Jon.” Her voice hitched, her entire body shuddering as the orgasm which had been just over the horizon began to fade away. “Please.”

Instead of answering, he leaned forward, swirling his tongue over her clit before sucking the hardened nub into his mouth. At the same time, he slid two fingers into her cunt, curving them and pressing against some spot deep inside. Whatever it was, the slight pressure racketed her arousal back up, even higher than before, and she bent double. “Fuck.”

The gasped expletive only seemed to spur him on and he sucked her clit more urgently, licking with the fervency of a man praying to the gods for salvation. He rubbed his fingers over the same spot, gently at first and then harder, not quite thrusting, and yet she heard the faint slap of his palm as it made contact with her wet—dripping wet, she realized—skin. When she felt the stirrings of orgasm again, sharper this time, more violent, she tried to pull him tighter against him only to groan when he once again broke the intimate kiss, almost on the verge of tears. “Jon, please.”

“I know, good girl.” He moved his hand from her hip to cover her lower abdomen, rubbing her clit with his thumb in tight, fast circles, keeping time with his not-quite thrusting fingers. He looked up at her through tangled curls, his lips and chin glistening in the low light, more evidence of how wet she was for him. “Do you want to cum, Sansa?”

“Yes.” She nodded, her lungs burning with each shuddering breath. “Yes, please. Yes.”

“I want you to cum all over face. I want to smell you, taste you, the rest of the night.” He shifted closer, increasing the speed of his thumb and fingers. ““Cum for me, Sansa. Cum for me, my beautiful good girl.”

Even if she’d wanted to—which of course she didn’t—she wouldn’t have been able to do anything but exactly what he asked—no, demanded. She lifted one hand to cover her mouth only to instead sink her teeth into her forearm, for once grateful for the long sleeves, as they both softened the bite—and her low scream—and would hide the tell-tale mark. A series of shudders shook her body as the orgasm burst through her, stole her breath, weakened her knees so she was forced to sag against the door for support. She heard Jon’s groan of approval, felt him slide his fingers free and immediately press his mouth to her cunt, all but drinking down her release, licking and licking and licking until she had no choice but to drop her arm and whimper, “I can’t… it’s too much… Jon.”

He gave her one last lick before pulling back, catching her when her knees gave way, lowering her to the floor before kneeling between her thighs. She watched through barely open eyes as he untied the drawstring of his pants with jerky movements, shoving them down his hips and pulling his cock free, wrapping his hand around the shaft and beginning to stroke its length. She struggled up to her elbows, watching him—watching his cock—before lifting her gaze to find him staring at her, his breathing ragged. “I’d like to do something—with your permission, of course.”

“What?”

“I want to cum on your cunt, see my release all over your skin.” He stroked faster, sweat dewing on his brow. “And then I want to rub it in so I know you’re wearing me all night, the same way I’m wearing you.”

“Yes.” Sansa shifted on the carpet, spreading her legs wider, shameless, arching her hips toward him. “Please cum on me, Jon. Please, I want to feel your cum on me, I want—.”

“Fuck.” He groaned, dragging his hand down his shaft, squeezing the head and groaning again, his eyes wide and wild and just a little dazed. He leaned forward, pressing the tip, wet with precum, to the spot on her lower abdomen he’d kissed earlier, taking her lips in a kiss which bordered on violent. “You’re such a good girl. Suck a good fucking girl.”

Sansa shifted her weight to one hand, lifting the other to thread her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, keeping her gaze locked to his. “ _Your_ good girl.”

“Seven hells.” He kissed her again, biting her lower lip, grunting once, twice, before sighing, the warm wet of his release coating Sansa’s skin a second later. His orgasm seemed to last as long as hers had, his body shaking in their half embrace, before he sighed again, resting his forehead against hers. “Gods.” He stayed there for a moment before drawing back, staring down at where their bodies almost, but not quite, met for long seconds before lifting his gaze to hers again. “I don’t remember the last time I came so hard. And all of it, every drop, was for you, good girl.”

“I like it.” And she did. She liked knowing, seeing, this tangible proof of her effect on him. She flicked her tongue over her lips. “Are you going to rub it in now?”

His lips curved in the tiniest of smiles. “Yes. I am.”

And he did, so diligently, so thoroughly, she was half aroused again by the time he finished. She sighed in disappointment when he removed his hand, stretching out on the carpet next to her. He chuckled, as if he knew what her sigh meant. “If we start again, I’m not stopping until I’m so deep inside you you can’t breathe.”

“Oh.” She swallowed, curling her fingers into her palm, resisting the urge to touch herself at the image his words conjured. “And we have to work.”

“We do.” He rolled to his side, reaching over and brushing strands of sweaty hair away from her face. He traced his thumb over her lips, his breath catching when she opened her mouth slightly, licking the digit. When he eased it further into her mouth and she began to suck, his eyes darkened, his voice dropping in register. “Oh, good girl. The things I’m going to enjoy teaching you to do with that mouth.” He pulled his thumb free, dragging his hand down until he was able to rest his palm on her throat, her pulse jumping against his fingers. “But later. When we don’t have other responsibilities.”

“Right.” She nodded, thought about getting off the floor, and realized her legs still weren’t steady. “So. I’ve been thinking, after Restaurant Week is finished, we should look at the possibility of opening for Sunday brunch.”

“There’s definitely a market for a restaurant whose primary attraction is food as opposed to $10 bottomless mimosas.” He removed his hand from her throat and rolled to his back only to reach down and take her hand, linking their fingers together. “I would want to commission some research first, see if we would be better sticking with our normal menu or if we should develop something more casual and low-key.”

Sansa turned her attention to the restaurant and future plans, only realizing when he finally dressed and left her office, they’d held hands the entire conversation.


	7. Hors D’Oeuvres:  Brown Oatbread and Smoked Cod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon deal with traitors...and play a little game.
> 
> (Warning: Mild sexual content/kink)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to those who've read/left comments/kudos. My apologies for the lack of updates this week but the day job has been particularly demanding and so, well, life.
> 
> Continuing with our course, we've technically moved on to the first one, the hors d'oeuvres. Some of the dishes have been inspired by food from the books/show, such as the brown oatbread in this chapter, as well as the use of cod. Future dishes will probably have a Scottish or Welsh influence, depending on the course.
> 
> As noted above, there is mild sexual content and kink--really mild. After all, this is the first appetizer.
> 
> As always--happy reading!

Three days later, Sansa sat in the small conference room, Jon next to her, Davos and Sam Tarly on the other side of the table. Sam, as he’d insisted on being called, was stammering toward the results of the wine audit while Davos appeared to be studying the view of the mountains afforded by the picture window which dominated the exterior wall. To the casual observer, Jon would have seemed bored, disinterested in the conversation but Sansa knew better.

Jon was furious.

Even as she continued to give Sam her full attention, she reached over, resting her hand on Jon’s knee and squeezing gently. He glanced at her, staring for a moment before relaxing his jaw, and she returned her hand to her own lap, linking it with the other, reminding herself to stay calm as well. It wouldn’t do any of them any good to give in the rage bubbling inside her even though she very much wanted to find the elder Umber and elder Karstark and demand an explanation for their treachery, for their lack of loyalty.

She was old enough to know that sometimes there wasn’t an explanation.

Sometimes people were just evil.

“I think they’ve got the gist of it, Sam.” Davos interrupted his younger partner, shifting his attention and gaze back to Sansa. “So, Your Grace, what would you like us to do?”

“Chop their cocks off and beat them to death with them.” Jon moved restlessly in his sleep, shrugging when Sansa frowned at him. “That’s my suggestion.”

“And if murder wasn’t illegal it might even be a valid one but since I’d prefer neither of us spend time at the Wall, we’ll have to use legal means to satisfy our need for vengeance.” Sansa caught his gaze, held it for long, long minutes. “Because trust me when I say there will be vengeance.”

“If I could make a few suggestions.” Davos waited until both Sansa and Jon had returned their attention to him before continuing. “Per your request, I’ve examined the employment contracts for the individuals in question. Given the circumstances, you won’t be responsible for any severance pay.”

“I would think not.” Sansa’s tone and accompanying smile could have frozen dragonfire. “My apologies, Mr. Davos. Please continue.”

“Just Davos, Your Grace. As I was saying, severance isn’t an issue. In exchange for not pressing charges, we can have them sign a non-disclosure agreement concerning the reasons for their termination, which would prevent them from speaking about it to any employers—.”

“No.” Sansa shook her head, resting her hands on the table, looking at Sam. “Would your audit hold up in court?”

“Uh. I mean.” He stammered unintelligibly for a moment before seeming to gain control of himself, his round face hardening. “Yes. Absolutely. There is concrete proof Umber and Karstark, working with Ramsay Bolton, bought lower quality, off-brand wine, masqueraded it as the brands advertised on your menu, and pocketed the difference.”

“Then I would like to press charges.” She glanced at Jon. “Are you still friends with the commander of the Watch? Mormont?”

“I wouldn’t call us friends but we keep in touch.” Jon thought of the tall, craggy man who had, on his first day of civilian boot camp, taken him aside and told him that, while an admirable goal, the Watch was no place for a man like Jon. _They’ll eat you alive, boy. You’re too good, too noble, for this type of life._ As a sixteen-year old boy, he’d been hurt, insulted. As a man near thirty, he could admit the commander had been right. “Why?”

Sansa didn’t answer. “Davos, you mentioned you’d done some work for Stannis Baratheon.” She’d never met Joffery’s uncle—the relationship between them was rocky at best and Stannis was far more concerned with his newspaper empire than with the drama of the university—but she knew, from snippets of overheard conversations, that Stannis was a stickler for law and order and covered the crime beat with the zeal of a fanatic. “If you gave him everything you gave me today—and assuming Commander Mormont is able to make the arrests today—would he be able to put together a story for the paper tomorrow?”

“Almost certainly, Your Grace.” Davos nodded. “Having said that, he would almost certainly want an interview with you.”

“As long as he can come to Winterfell, I’ll speak with him whenever it’s convenient for him.” She turned to Jon. “Do you think you could persuade your not-quite friend Mormont to handle the arrests himself? And to perhaps speak with the judge about bail when Umber and Karstark are arraigned?”

Jon’s only answer was to pull out his phone and begin texting.

“Begging your pardon, Ms. Stark.” Sam started stammering again when Sansa turned her full attention on him, managing to compose himself after a moment. “I just, I wonder, given how concerned you are and you have been with the reputation of the restaurant, if drawing attention to the fact you had two employees engaged in embezzlement is really the best move.”

“Wine sales have been down for some time now, even before I took over as manager, and I wasn’t sure why. Now, with this information, it’s clear people stopped buying wine because they no longer believed in the quality of the product. They no longer believed in Winterfell. They no longer believed in the Starks.” Sansa paused, taking a moment to regain control of her emotions, waiting until she was sure there would be no tremble in her voice when she spoke. “If we hide the truth from them, especially one such as this, we’ll never regain their trust or their loyalty. People deserve to know their trust wasn’t misplaced—that the Stark name means something.”

“‘When truth is buried underground it grows, it chokes, it gathers such an explosive force that on the day it bursts out, it blow up everything with it.’” Jon shrugged when Sansa stared at him. “English Lit 101. Don’t ask me who said it, because I don’t remember, but still.”

“Yes.” Sansa nodded, reminded herself now wasn’t the time to be dazzled at this new facet of him. “The truth is explosive.” She turned her attention back to Davos and Sam. “And the North—the community, who we are—the North remembers.”

“Outing them will be far more destructive than simply pressing charges but the combination will ruin them.” Jon nodded. “Even if they’re able to work out a deal which doesn’t require jail time, they’ll never find work in another restaurant in the area. The North remembers.”

Davos nodded. “We’ll make sure they do.”

The office door opened and Gilly stuck her head in, clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt but Jon, Tormund says he needs you in the kitchen, something about an issue with the meat delivery. And Sansa, you said you wanted to sit down with me, Podrick, and Brienne and go over the outline for the training workshops.”

“Would you tell Tormund I’ll be there in a few minutes?” Jon watched out of the corner of his eye as Sam all but goggled at Gilly, his mouth falling open. “Sansa? About ten?”

“No more than that. Gilly, if you want to find Podrick and Brienne and get set up.” Sansa would have sworn she was watching her lawyer lose brain cells in active time as Sam continued to stare at her new head server, who seemed oblivious to the attention. “I’ll find you in the dining room.”

“Sure thing.” She slipped out of the room, although Sam continued to stare at the door as if his gaze alone had the power to make her reappear.

Sansa fought to repress a smile, glancing over to find Jon doing the same. Standing, she said, “Davos, Sam. If you could get all of that squared away, today if possible, and keep me updated, I would appreciate it.” She paused, turning over the thought in her mind before deciding little harm could come from the gesture. “Sam, I’d appreciate if, on your way out, you could find Gilly and have her schedule a meeting with our wine vendors to discuss the situation with them.”

Jon waited until the lawyers had left the room, closing the door behind them, before speaking. “You want Gilly to set up a meeting with the wine vendors.”

“If she can, yes.” Sansa sat, perching her elbows on the table and resting her head in her hands. “But really, I was just giving Sam an excuse to talk to her.”

“I thought so.” He reached over, squeezing one shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No.” She laughed. “No, not at all.” She lifted her head, turning to face him, their knees brushing. “You know, for a moment, I really did consider your suggestion—about chopping their dicks off and beating them to death with them.”

“Did you?” He gave her a half smile. “Spine of steel wrapped in pretty silks.”

“It’s the only way to survive in this industry. In life.”

“Hmm.” Taking her hand, he tugged her over to sit in his lap, curving his arm around her waist. “Maybe, but there should be more to life than merely surviving. There should be pleasant things, too.” He pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, chuckling when she shivered. “And maybe some fun games.”

“We don’t have time for games right now.” And they hadn’t since their time her office three days earlier—first, she’d fallen asleep before their after-shift meeting, resulting in Jon driving her home and tucking her into bed with a chaste kiss on the forehead; the next day she’d been tied up in meetings and interviews while Jon had dealt with a surprise health inspection and they’d agreed to skip the after-shift meeting; last night had been more paperwork, broken up with reminiscing about childhood memories. Still, the knowledge they both had pressing obligations didn’t prevent Sansa from tilting her head, giving him better access to her throat. “But maybe later….”

“Yes.” He nipped her earlobe and she closed her eyes, biting back a moan. “Tonight. Because if I have to go another day without putting my hands on you I might die.”

“We can’t allow that.” She forced herself to stand, smoothing down her skirt. “So I’ll see you after the shift.”

He stood as well, brushing against her, and she fought back a shudder. “As the Queen commands.”

*****

Later that night, Sansa looked up as her office door opened, her lips curving as Jon stepped inside, holding a serving tray in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “You didn’t have to cook dinner.”

“Good, because I didn’t.” He eased the door shut with his foot, setting the tray and wine on the coffee table before joining her on the sofa. “I have to do something first.”

Before she could ask what, he reached up, taking her chin in one hand while sinking his other into her hair, crushing his lips against hers, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth, taking control so smoothly and so totally all she could do was give in to him, melt into him, until she was as soft and pliant as heated wax. When he drew back, she all but toppled into his lap and he chuckled. “Hello, good girl.”

“Hi.” She straightened and started to brush her hair away from her cheeks only to mock scowl at him when he pulled the pins from her hair, the mass tumbling around her shoulders. “Really, Jon?”

“It’s going to wind up that way before the end of the night.” He scraped his thumbnail over her lower lip. “Besides, I like your hair. I wish you could wear it down all the time but I also like knowing I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

“Hmm.” She tried to pretend she wasn’t flushing but knew if she could feel the heat in her face than no doubt Jon could see the faint color. She glanced at the coffee table. “So if that’s not dinner, what is it?”

“What I’m hoping will be the primary hors d’oeuvre for our menu for Restaurant Week—brownoat bread topped with smoked cod.” He leaned over, snagging a petite slice of exquisitely shaped bread, topped with smoked cod and what looked like crème fraiche and diced chives. “I did a little research and according to online wine experts, it should pair well with this white Rioja.”

She took a bite, closing her eyes and moaning. Swallowing, she said, “Oh, my God, Jon. This is amazing.”

“And here I thought the only thing which could put that look on your face was me.” Jon laughed when she opened her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. “Although since I made the food, I guess technically I did put it on your face.”

“How on earth do you manage to walk around without tripping over your ego?”

“If that’s another word for my cock, well—.”

“Stop it.” She laughed and took another bite, polishing off the small offering. “You knew what I meant.” She took the wine he offered her, sipping delicately before sighing. “Good choice with the wine also. This will definitely be a hit during Restaurant Week.”

“Only another twenty or so dishes to nail down.” Jon finished his own glass of wine, setting it and then Sansa’s on the coffee table and then pushing it further away from the sofa. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched out, pulling Sansa on top of him. “Come here, my sweet, good girl, and kiss me again. I’ve been thinking about your mouth all day.”

She did, eagerly, her hair falling around them, pressing as close to him as possible. When he stroked the back of her thigh, she shifted until her legs were on either side of his, the position both drawing her skirt higher and bringing her flush against his hardening cock. He eased his hand upward, stilling when his fingers brushed the folds of her cunt. Breaking the kiss, he whispered, “No underwear? That sounds more like a bad girl than a good girl.”

“I just took them off. After we closed. While I was waiting.” She ducked her chin, hiding her face against his neck. “Not all day.”

“Still, I didn’t tell you to do that. Maybe I wanted to take them off myself.” He pulled his hand back and Sansa whimpered. “You know what this means, don’t you, good girl?” When she shook her head, he said, “This means I have to punish you. Just a little.”

Sansa stilled. “How?”

“Just a spanking. Five counts. Since it was a first offense.” He stroked his hand down her back and then up again, cradling the nape of her neck. “Hey.” He waited until she lifted her head and met his gaze to continue. “It’s a game, Sansa. That’s all. And you don’t have to play if you don’t want to, okay?”

“I don’t know….” She trailed off, loathe to discuss either Bolton or Baelish. Finally, she sighed. “I want to but I don’t know if I can.”

“If you want to, really want to, we can try. And if you can’t, then all you have to do is say ‘lemon cakes’ and I’ll stop.” Jon’s mouth twitched in a half smile. “I don’t think ‘lemon cakes’ is something you’ll accidently yell out.”

“No, it isn’t.” She sat up, watching as he did the same, moving into a normal sitting position. Chewing on her lower lip, she said, “Now what?”

“Lay across my lap, face down.” He waited until she’d done so, stroking one hand down her leg and then up again. “I’m going to put my hand in the center of your back, okay? Not to hold you down but just to stabilize you. Most people, their first reaction to a hand slapping their ass is to jump, and I don’t want you to jump and roll off the sofa and hurt yourself.”

Sansa nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart was racing, sweat dewing over her entire body, but she had no idea if it was nerves or anticipation.

“If you decide you’re okay with this and this is something you’d like to do again in the future, you’ll be responsible for counting each stroke. Since this is sort of a tester session, I’ll do it.” He rested his other hand on her ass, massaging slowly but firmly. “Are you ready?”

She started to nod and then remembered his preference for vocalization of consent. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He lifted his hand and she tensed, biting the inside of her cheek as the seconds dragged out until he brought his palm down and she jolted, wincing. “One.”

He lifted his hand again. “You should know, it stings more when you tense up.” He didn’t give her a chance to relax, bringing his hand down. “Two.”

She sucked in a quick breath as he raised his hand and then almost immediately exhaled, forcing her body to go limp as his palm met her ass. “Three.”

She found he was right, timing her next series of breaths so her exhale came a second before his hand connected again. “Four.”

She also found, disconcertingly, that in the last few minutes she’d become very, very wet. She was so busy puzzling that thought out she didn’t remember to exhale before the final stroke, letting out a tiny yelp when he dropped his hand one last time. “Five.”

He rolled her over, careful to keep her from tumbling off his lap and the sofa, reaching up and brushing the hair from her face, his gaze serious. “How did that feel?”

“My ass hurts.” She pushed out her lower lip and fluttered her lashes, giggling when he flicked the tip of her nose. “I think… I think I liked it.”

“Really.” He slid his hand back up her skirt, palming her cunt and humming his approval low in his throat. “Yes, I would say you did.” He began to play his thumb over her clit, continuing to watch her face. “One quick orgasm, good girl, and then it’s off to bed.”

She couldn’t keep her face from falling. “But I thought—.”

“Restaurant is closed Sunday and Monday. So I’m taking you home tomorrow night.” Jon slipped a finger inside her, chuckling when she arched her hips toward him. “And I’m not letting you out of bed until Tuesday morning when we have to come back to work.”

“Oh.” Sansa sighed, closing her eyes and moving her hips against his hand. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon quotes Emile Zola, from the series, Great Ideas of Western Man (1898). For those familiar with Criminal Minds, it was also used as an ending quote for one of their episodes.
> 
> Last note, and one I'll do my best to reiterate wherever necessary, BDSM--even a light version, such as in this chapter--is all about SSC: safe, sane, and consensual. If a scene isn't hitting those notes, please reevaluate it and your partner--safety first, my friends.


	8. Pottage--Onion Broth with Lamb and Carrot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa faces old enemies with an ally by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to all who read/comment/leave kudos. I appreciate all the feedback and support.
> 
> This chapter is a little shorter than previous ones and serves both as transition and setup for forthcoming chapters, much like the soup (pottage) course at the beginning of a meal. Rest assured, the sexual content will be back in the next chapter and for quite a few after.
> 
> As always, happy reading!

The next night, Sansa stood in an alcove, doing her absolute best to remember how to breathe and certain she was going to fail. If she failed, she would pass out and gods only knew when somebody would find her or who would find her and—. She pushed that thought away, the thought of being helpless and alone and vulnerable, bracing one hand against the wall, closing her eyes, and focusing on her breathing.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

“Ms. Stark?”  
She jumped, biting back a yelp, and opened her eyes to find Podrick standing just outside the alcove, the tablet which essentially served as the command center for the restaurant in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He glanced up and down the hall before ducking inside the space with her, offering her the water. “Brienne asked me to bring this to you. And to let you know we’ve seated the, uh, party, in the back room.”

Away from the majority of the guests, from people who may or may not want a show with their dinner. Sansa took the water, sipping slowly, turning over her options in her mind. Nobody would think less of her if she avoided the room and the party in question. However, it would be impolite on a variety of levels, both personal and professional.

“Podrick. Would you please go to the ensuite in my office, look in the medicine cabinet, and bring me the small blue pillbox, please?” After her near panic attack, she’d succumbed to common sense and brought a half dozen doses of anxiety medication, purely as a precaution. It would take less than thirty minutes for the medicine to reach its full strength. She could avoid the back room for thirty minutes. “Wait. Don’t. If you could just….” She trailed off, taking a deep breath and holding it for long moments before exhaling. “Would you find Jon for me, please? Just tell him… you’ll know what to tell him.”

“Yes, Ms. Stark.” Podrick nodded and gave a half bow, taking back the glass of water. “They’re by the bay window, overlooking the godswood.”

“Thank you, Podrick.” Sansa smoothed first her dress and then her hair before squaring her shoulders and stepping out of the alcove. Trusting Podrick to do his job, she headed down the hall and into the main dining room, nodding at some guests, smiling at others, stopping for the odd bit of conversation with people who had known her parents or her siblings. She gave Brienne a brisk nod as she passed the maître d’ stand, lifting her chin as she glided into the back room, her gaze drawn toward the corner table as if on a string.

The Lannisters.

Not all of them, thank the gods. Jamie and Tyrion were conspicuously absent, although she supposed it was to be expected given their respective positions. Myrcella was no doubt still in Dorne—her one semester abroad had turned into two and then three and Sansa suspected the younger girl had no intention of returning home if she could help it.

Tommen looked miserable but that was par for the course whenever he was forced to spend time with his old brother. Or his mother. Or doing anything which took him away from his religious studies. Sansa had always believed he would have been happier if he’d chosen to become a septon but his parents would never have allowed it and even if they had his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, would have forbid it. And Sansa knew from experience that whatever Tywin Lannister wanted—or didn’t want—Tywin Lannister got.

Margaery Lannister—ńee Tyrell—looked radiant as always, blonde curls tumbling around her shoulders and over her breasts, rising from the lowcut neckline of her strapless cocktail dress. The dress matched her eyes, not only in color—bluest blue—but in tone—calculating. There was always a hint of calculation in everything Margaery said and did and wore, something Sansa hadn’t noticed when she was younger—when they were still friends—but as she’d grown older, as she’d broken away from the Lannisters and the inner circle of Red Keep, she’d seen all too clearly. She didn’t begrudge Margaery her marriage to Joffery; she seemed to be able to handle the Golden Lion better than Sansa ever had and if somebody had to marry Joffery better Margaery than Sansa.

Joffery looked bored. And stupid. And mean. In other words, he looked very much the way Sansa remembered him looking when he told her, with his usual trademark sneer, that Margaery was a much better match for him, that her family could do far more for Lion and Stag than the Starks could, and so he saw absolutely no point in continuing with the façade of their engagement. True, he had gained a few pounds, his cheeks round, almost jowly, his shirt and jacket stretched tight around his middle. His blond hair was already thinning, the haircut doing nothing to hide the fact he would be bald before he was forty. The scion of Lion and Stag looked nothing like a proud lion or a majestic stag.

Unlike his mother, who managed to embody both.

Cersei Lannister Baratheon sat with her back straight, her golden hair waving around the perfect blank oval of her face, the color striking as always against the dark red of her suit. Her gaze, when it landed on Sansa, was without warmth or chill. She stood, closing the distance between them with outstretched hands. “Sansa. Little dove.” She offered her cheek to Sansa for a kiss, her lips stopping a breath away from Sansa’s cheek. “You look lovely as always. The North suits you far more than the South ever did.”

“Yes, it does. Thank you.” Sansa stepped away, breaking contact, praying the older woman hadn’t felt the icy sweat coating her palms. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see you here. I know how little you care for the area.”

“We wanted to come see you, little dove.” Cersei’s smile sharpened, showing the faintest hint of teeth. She glanced over her shoulder at her sons and Margaery and something on her face brought them all to attention, even Joffery, although he continued to look annoyed. Turning back to Sansa, she said, “I know how difficult it can be, trying to run an empire on your own.”

Sansa didn’t point out that Cersei was from alone, continuing to smile benignly. “I appreciate the concern but I’m quite alright.” She shifted her gaze to Tommen, her professional smile softening. “Tommen, it’s nice to see you. How are your studies going?”

“They’re going well.” He ducked his chin, his face flushing a furious red when Joffery scoffed. His next words were low and muffled. “Thank you for asking.”

“Of course.” Sansa shifted her gaze to her former friend. “And Margaery, your charity work?”

“We’re opening another school next month, specifically for orphaned children.” Margaery glanced at her husband. “We’re dedicating it to poor Robert. I’m sure he would have approved.”

“Hmm.” Sansa was more sure Robert Baratheon cared nothing for anything or anybody who wasn’t himself, a trait he’d passed along to his oldest son. Turning to her former fiancé, she said, “Joffery.”

His only answer was a snort.

“Gracious, as always.” Turning back to Cersei, watching the series of exchanges with not-so-private amusement, Sansa said, “It was lovely to see you but my attention is needed elsewhere.”

“Of course, of course. I’m sure you’re having to do so much, what with the firing of first your manager and now your sommeliers.” Cersei shook her head and gave a little frown. “This industry seems to bring out the worst in people, doesn’t it?”

“Only if that’s all they have to give. Most people, though, they’re made up of more than bad.” Jon stepped up next to Sansa, resting one hand in the small of her back. “I assume you’re Cersei Lannister.” Cersei extended her hand but Jon ignored it and after a moment the other woman lowered her arm back to her side. “I’ll also assume, despite what you might have told Ms. Stark, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence because you wanted to check out our menu and see if you could get a hint about our plan for Restaurant Week.”

Cersei’s smile grew sharper still, all teeth, no pretense of civility. “Since you’ve chosen to be so blunt about it—yes. We wanted to come and see our competition.” She shifted her stare to Sansa. “I wouldn’t hold it against you, little dove, if you did the same.”

“That won’t be necessary. I might be your competition.” Sansa offered her a bland smile. “But you’re not mine.”

Sansa turned on her heel and walked out of the room, Jon a half-step behind her, his hand on her back guiding her down one hallway and then another, finally nudging her into another alcove, barely big enough for the two of them. She turned toward him, reaching for him, only to gasp when he shoved her against the wall, bringing her hands above her head, and holding them there. She didn’t hesitate when he took her mouth, the kiss almost violent, his hips rocking against hers, her own arching to meet him.

He pulled back with a gasp, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry. You were so amazing, so strong, so beautiful.” He fell silent for a moment, his body shuddering with each breath, before finally letting out a low chuckle. “Telling Cersei Lannister she isn’t worthy of being your competition. That was… well, ballsy. Definitely ballsy.”

“It’s true.” She wiggled her hands in his grasp and when he released her, she lowered her hand to trace a finger down his jaw. “I don’t think I would have had the, uh, balls to talk to her like that a few years ago. Even a few months ago.” She feathered her fingers over his cheek, warm and secure in his embrace. “Not before you.”

“I can’t take credit for your strength. It’s always been yours.” He kissed her again, slow and sweet, and she sighed. “Sansa Stark, Queen of Winterfell.” Another kiss, even softer. “My Queen.” He drew back with a quiet sigh of his own. “I have to get back to the kitchen.”

“And I need to do table touches.” She stroked her thumb over his chin. “Only three more hours until close.”

“Four hours until I take you home.” Jon smiled and she would have sworn she felt her stomach flutter. “Four hours and… I’ll say ten minutes until I’m between your legs and making you beg.”

Sansa swallowed. “Let’s go for four hours and five minutes.”


	9. Farinaceous—Kale Gnocchi with Lemon and White Wine Cream Sauce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon begin their weekend alone.
> 
> (Warning: Mention of past abuse/violence; explicit sexual content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to those who read/comment/leave kudos. Your appreciation continues to remain my motivation.
> 
> So we're up to the fourth course and the beginning of the true meal, as it were. Which means, for all you lovely readers of smut, we're going to have quite a few smut chapters from here on out. I feel the phrase "explicit sexual content" should cover all the bases but if for some reason it doesn't, the tags will be adjusted.
> 
> Speaking of smut...this is almost 3500 words of it. Mostly. It started off smutty and then got very intimate but I still think it qualifies as smut--maybe just high-brow smut.
> 
> Happy reading!

Sansa’s first impression of Jon’s apartment was the dim outline of furniture silhouetted against an impressive view of Winter Town, twinkling in the distance. She didn’t have time for a second impression because no sooner did the door close than Jon spun her around, pressing her against the heavy wood, taking her month even as he fumbled with the lock just next to her head. She knew when he finally shot them home because his hands were immediately on her, streaking down her side to snake under the skirt of her dress. He gripped her thigh and she would have sworn she felt his heartbeat in each of his fingertips.

He broke the kiss, walking back, pulling her with him. When she stumbled, he paused long enough to allow her to slip out of her heels before continuing to drag her toward one of the pieces of furniture. He spun her again and gave her a gentle push, sending her tumbling down to what turned out to be an oversized, overstuffed sofa, the movement causing two pillows to fall to the floor. Stretching out on top of her, he gave her a soft kiss and nuzzled her nose. “You said five minutes, yeah?”

She nodded.

“I think I’m going to make it with a minute to spare.” Kissing the tip of her nose, he slid down her torso, pushing her skirt up at the same time, using his shoulders to spread her legs wider. He hooked two fingers under the fabric covering her hips, one on each side, and eased her underwear off, dropping it on top of the pillows. He pressed a kiss to each of her hipbones before settling directly between her thighs, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive skin of her cunt. “I’ll collect my prize later.”

She slipped an arm under her head and closed her eyes, a smile creeping over her face. “I’m sure you will.”

Jon flicked his tongue over the soft spot directly over her clit before dragging it toward her left thigh, nipping the sensitive skin there. Reversing course, he gave her right thigh the same treatment, his beard barely brushing the folds of her cunt, the raspy texture causing her to squirm and then immediately yelp when he smacked the outside of her right thigh. His murmur was barely audible but she heard nonetheless. “Stay still, sweet girl, or you’re going to force me to make you stay still.”

Sansa swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. From nerves, yes, but also from the thought that maybe letting Jon hold her down or tie her up wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“Good girl.” He rewarded her with a kiss to her clit, the barest of pressure, and she had to bite her lip to keep from arching her hips. He chuckled, as if he knew, and whispered, “I told you I was going to make you beg.”

She would have begged right then and there if she believed it would make a difference but she already knew it wouldn’t. When he said he wanted her to beg, he meant he wanted her to a babbling mess, to be barely coherent, to be swamped with sensation and pleasure and… everything that she didn’t beg so much as cry. And she already knew, before the end of the night, it would happen more than once.

He pressed feather soft kisses over the entire surface of her cunt, never lingering in any one spot, moving up and then down, left and then right, venturing as far as the upper crease of each thigh before returning to the center. He avoided her clit, always a breath away but never any closer, repeating the circuit a second, third, fourth time, until she could feel her own wetness dripping on to the sofa below her. She cleared her throat and whispered, “I’m making a mess on the cushions.”

“Good girl.” Before she could process the comment and what it meant, he slipped two fingers between her folds, rubbing up and down the slit before curling them toward his palm, using his knuckles to spread the slippery skin wide, exposing her to the soft, warm night air. Moving closer, he ran the very tip of his tongue over the same skin, barely flicking her clit before drawing back. “I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with your taste on my lips, on my tongue. I’ll see you at work, standing there, so calm and poised, so demure in your queen of the castle dresses, and remember how I can make you cum so hard, make you so wet you ruin those sweet, good girl dresses.”

“Jon.” She started to lift her hand, wanting some other point of contact, then stilled. “Can I touch you? Please?”

“Yes.” He sighed, his warm exhalation blowing over her wet skin, raising goosebumps on her arms, as she threaded her fingers through his hair. “Now—let Daddy take care of his good girl.”

He licked her again, more aggressively, swirling his tongue around her clit, sucking on the slippery bundle of nerves for long seconds, until Sansa was forced to dig the nails of her free hand into her palm in order to keep from squirming. The pressure and suction around her clit was just this side of painful—not a hurt, not really, but the sort of sensation she associated with a cramped muscle finally relaxing. She swallowed a whimper when he eased two fingers inside her, rubbing the inner walls of her cunt, and then bit her bottom lip when he pulled his fingers free and stopped sucking her clit.

“You don’t have to be quiet here, sweet girl. It’s only you and me.” He kissed her inner thigh and she felt the curve of his lips against her skin. “And the walls are soundproofed.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Whatever you want to say—or not say. You tell me as much when you sigh or when you moan as if you were using actual words.” He tilted his head up slightly, his eyes glittering in the dim light coming in through the floor to ceiling windows flanking the wall behind them. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he slipped his fingers inside her again, a little faster, a little harder, his palm not quite slapping the folds of her cunt, and then smiled when she let out a low moan. “That sound? It tells me you like it a little rough. A little mean.” He pulled his hand back but not his fingers free, thrusting them back in harder, a distinctly wet slap echoing though the room. “Yes or no, sweet girl?”

“Yes.” She turned her face into her upper arm, not quite biting but almost. She wanted—no, needed—to move her hips, her entire lower body was so heavy, so full, so tight with tension but she remained still, using the only avenue open to her—her words. “I’m not begging yet.”

“Hmm.” He repeated the thrusting motion, chuckling when she whimpered. “Looks like my good girl has a bratty side. We’ll deal with that later.” He lowered his head, slicking his tongue over the folds of her cunt again before sucking her clit between his lips, rolling the hardened nub in small, tight circles with his tongue as he continued to fuck her with his fingers, an imitation of what was to come.

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, and gave herself over to the moment, to the constant motion of his fingers, to the sting of his palm against her increasingly wet cunt, to the pressure of his tongue as it worried her clit, a near constant motion which drove her higher and faster toward orgasm. With every gasp, every whimper, every near breathless, “gods”, he pushed her harder, until she was shaking, threatening to break apart at the seams. Drawing in a deep breath, letting it out on a broken exhale, she opened her eyes and looked down at the top of his head, his curls spilling over her fingers. “Jon. Please. Please, please, please—.”

He lifted his head at the same time as he pulled his fingers almost free, adding a third as he fucked them back into her, curving them and pressing upward, replacing his tongue on her clit with his thumb. Looking up at her, he said, “Cum for me, sweet girl.”

And seven hells if she didn’t.

She moaned, closing her eyes again as her head fell back against her arm, her entire body going rigid as pleasure broke through her, radiating out from her cunt, the muscles in her thighs trembling as she tried to squeeze them closed, Jon’s shoulders preventing the motion. It was a struggle to stay still, to keep from bucking her hips against his hand, especially as he continued to work her clit with his thumb, to fuck her cunt with his fingers, and when the second orgasm came, almost as strong as the first, she cried out his name, squeezing her eyes so tight a single tear crept from under her lashes, sliding down her cheek. She felt him shift and then slide up her torso and a second later his wet lips kissed away the tear.

“It’s okay, sweet girl. Daddy has you. You’re such a good girl.” He continued murmuring praise and reassurance in her ear until the last waves of her orgasm ebbed away and she let out another broken exhale, realizing for the first time she’d been holding her breath. He slid his fingers free, resting them on her upper thigh, stroking gently. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, swallowed, and then whispered, “Yeah. Just… intense.”

“If you’re going to do something, you should do it well.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, lifting one hand to cup her cheek and turn her face toward him. “Will you open your eyes for me, sweet girl?” She did, studying his features even as he studied hers. Whatever he saw there must have reassured him because he kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m going to take a quick shower, wash the kitchen off me.” He smiled. “Which I should have done when we walked in the door but I was on a deadline. Let me show you the bedroom and you can get comfortable—or do you want something to drink first?”

“Maybe some water.” She felt the blush creeping over her face. “I’ve been doing some reading and, uh, apparently hydration is important.”

“It is.” He smacked her thigh lightly. “And you’re going to need to be well hydrated for what I have planned for you.”

**********************************************************

Jon stood in the shower, head bent, hands braced against the wall, letting the water cascade over his shoulders and roll down his back. He’d turned the water temperature down twice already and it was currently cold enough to raise goosebumps all over his body.

His cock was still, stubbornly, as hard as granite.

He hadn’t lied about needing to wash the kitchen off him. Even operating in a primarily supervisory capacity, he still ended every shift drenched in sweat and while Sansa had never complained, he didn’t feel right taking her to bed for the first time smelling like the kitchens. He’d also wanted to try and get his own arousal under control; he’d never admit it, not even to Sansa, but he was very concerned that as soon as she touched him he’d go off like a teenager getting his first handjob and while his refractory period was shorter than the average man’s he didn’t want to take any chances.

Turning off the water, he slicked his hands over his hair, squeezing out the excess water before stepping out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he took a moment to brush his teeth and rinse with mouthwash, studying himself in the mirror. Most women were put-off by the scars covering his torso, either asking him to wear a shirt or to simply fuck them from behind so they wouldn’t have to see the imperfections. For a moment, he considered tugging on a shirt and then decided against it.

Sansa wouldn’t turn away from him.

He opened the bathroom door and flicked off the light, stepping into the bedroom and immediately drawing up short. Sansa was sitting in the center of his king-sized bed, still wearing her dress, knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her calves. He stared at her for a moment, struck again at the otherworldly nature of her beauty, at the way the lamp light cast a halo over the red hair which spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Clearing his throat, he said, “Are you okay?”

“I thought….” She trailed off, chewing on her lower lip, drawing in a deep breath and then sighing. “I tried to take off my clothes. I did. And then I thought about the scars and I didn’t want you to look at me and be disgusted.”

“Sansa.” He kept his voice low, soothing, even as he cursed himself for not considering she might feel insecure about the visible proof of her ordeal with Bolton. “I want you to know I would never be disgusted looking at you or touching you or being with you. Those experiences are gifts, ones you give to me, and I’m honored you trust me enough to give them to me.” He moved closer to the bed, slowly, watching her face for any signs of stress. “I want to have sex with you, yes. I want that very, very much. But I only want it if you want it. And if all you want to do tonight is lay next to each other and sleep then that’s what we’ll do.”

She dropped her gaze to his chest and he tensed, suddenly unsure of what her reaction would be. After a moment, she looked at him and said, “What happened?”

“That summer I was a fast-food manager and half my kitchen quit?” He waited until she nodded before continuing. “About half a dozen of them decided to jump me one night after the rest of the crew had left. Some used their fist.” He shrugged. “Some of them used knives.”

“You never told us you were hurt. Like really, really hurt.”

“Tormund took me to someone—she used to be a doctor but got in trouble for sleeping with a patient.” He shrugged again. “She didn’t ask any questions and we didn’t offer anything other than money and after she stitched me up we went our separate ways.”

Sansa shifted until she was kneeling and then made her way almost the edge of the bed. She reached out, resting one hand on his right shoulder, the fingertips of her other hand brushing the scar running from his left shoulder across his heart and ending right above his belly button. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before saying, “Do they hurt?”

“Sometimes.” He willed himself to stay still, to allow her explorations, even though his skin tingled every place her fingers touched. “If I’m stressed or tired. I remind myself it’s in the past and they can’t hurt me again.” He reached up, covering her hand with his, pressing both of their palms against his chest, his gaze steady on hers. “Nobody will ever hurt you again, Sansa. I swear it.”

“I used to think….” She fell silent, her gaze dropping to their joined hands. “I used to think nobody could protect anybody.” When she lifted her gaze and met his eyes, the expression there was so open, so vulnerable, Jon felt a strange little ache grip his heart. “And now… now I think I was wrong.” Slipping her hands from him, she reached behind her, the rasp of the zipper as she slid it down unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet room. She shrugged free of the bodice, peeling the sleeves down her arms, the dress falling to her hips, leaving her upper body bare except for her bra, which she unclasped and dropped on the floor before lifting the dress up and over her head, tossing it next to her bra. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin even as her lower lip began to quiver. “Would you touch me, Jon? Please?”

“Until you tell me to stop.” He skimmed a single finger over her collarbone, skirting a scar a half shade darker than her skin, before reaching down and cupping her breast. It just filled the palm of his hand, a solid warmth, and he flicked his thumb over her nipple, humming low in his throat when it hardened. Bending his head, he ran his tongue around the stiff peak before drawing back, shifting his attention to her other breast, his free hand resting lightly on her hip. Looking up at her, he said, “Would you lay on your stomach for me?”

She hesitated for a moment before nodding, moving backward on the mattress and turning until she could stretch out as he asked. Letting his towel fall to the floor, he climbed up on the bed and straddled her, sweeping her hair over her shoulder until it fanned across the mattress, leaving her back bare. When she started to protest, he leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck. “Please, Sansa.”

She stilled and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and he sighed. “Thank you.”

Bolton had been more liberal with his knife here than on her stomach and breasts and arms, the scar distribution so widespread and dense it was impossible to determine if there had even been a pattern or method to his madness. Shifting until he was almost laying on top of her, keeping his weight on his elbows, he kissed a patch of hatchmarked scars, flicking his tongue over the raised skin. Sansa shifted under him but didn’t protest and he moved his head, pressing his lips to another cluster of scars.

And so he made his way over and down her back, making sure not to miss a single mark, noting when she finally relaxed under him and when she began to shiver, her hips arching, her ass grinding against his cock. He grit his teeth but ignored the feel of her soft curves, concentrating on learning her, worshipping her, until her low sounds of pleasure were the only sound filling his ears, until the smell of lemons was the only scent he recognized, until the taste of lemons was heavy on his tongue. Shifting his weight to one elbow, he helped her roll onto her back, brushing the hair from her face, smiling at her dazed expression. “I want you, Sansa.”

She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, her lips curving in a satisfied smile. “Then have me, Jon Snow.”

Settling between her thigh again, he took his cock in one hand, stroking once, twice, before easing the head between the folds of her cunt, sliding up toward her clit and then down, her wetness coating him like the finest silk. Pressing the head of his cock to the entrance of her body, he took a deep breath and stilled. “If I hurt you….”

“You won’t.”

Her confidence in him, her faith, was more intoxicating than the finest Dornish wine and he sighed, pushing his hips forward with a slow but sure thrust, watching her face the entire time. There was a brief flicker of… not pain but discomfort, maybe, and he stilled again, waiting until the tension eased before continuing to push forward, not stopping again until his hips were flush against hers. He sighed, rotating his hips in a slow, tight circle, the motion grinding his pubic bone against her clit and the shaft of his cock against her g-spot. Her eyes widened, her lips opening on a small exhalation of surprise, and she tightened her arms around his neck, drawing him to her, taking his mouth with hers.

And so he steeped himself in her, touch, taste, smell, sound, until the only thing in the world was her body under his, rising to meet his, taking him in, taking him under, until he was so much steeped in her as he was drowning and he sank willingly, letting her pull him down. When she shuddered under him, once, twice, gasping his name into his mouth, he gave in to the overwhelming need for his own release, shifting and pressing his face to the curve of her neck.

“I didn’t know….” Her words, more whisper than gasp, barely audible over the thundering of his pulse, over the rasps of her breath in his ear. She swallowed and he felt the movement of her throat underneath his lips. “I didn’t know it was like that.”

It was his turn to swallow, his throat almost too dry to speak. “Like what?”

“Beautiful.” There was so much wonder in her voice he drew back until he could see her face, her smile soft and dazzling and… perfect. “Just… beautiful.”

And in that moment, Jon knew he hadn’t simply bent the knee. He’d been conquered, body and soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are interested, the fourth course, farinaceous, is the pasta course. I couldn't find anything which would directly relate back to GoT but going with the theory that the North is essentially Scotland, I tried to create a pasta dish which drew from Scottish ingredients (such as kale) but which could theoretically be served in a fine dining restaurant. If you're a foodie, please feel free to comment and share your own suggestions.


	10. Poisson--Finnan Haddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon enjoy a late night meal and Sansa has an extra treat.
> 
> (Warning: Explicit Sexual Content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I open with my appreciation for all you lovely readers/commenters/leavers of kudos. You continue to motivate me.
> 
> There is the briefest mention of Jon's previous relationships, including with Ygritte, but it's all of two paragraphs.
> 
> As promised--we're really leaning into the smut in the next few chapters. As a result, we're also leaning into the kink because I like what I like and damn it, just let a girl have some smut. Having said that, if you're not in to praise kink, light Daddy Doms, or dirty talk, this may not be the fic for you.
> 
> The chapter title takes itself from the fifth course, Poisson/fish, which is usually seen as a preparation course of the palette for the heavier courses yet to come (hint, hint). The dish described in the text is, to some extent, a traditional Scottish dish--just with some fancy extras. And for those who are curious--yes, you can make cream from goat's milk and the 'coastal spice' mentioned is Old Bay Seasoning (which may just be a thing in the States, I'm not sure)
> 
> As always--happy reading!

Jon set the plate in front of Sansa and took a step back, suddenly nervous. He’d cooked for other women in his apartment, yes, and he’d cooked for Sansa at Winterfell, yes. But he’d never cooked for Sansa in his apartment. He’d never cooked for the woman he loved.

Oh, he’d cooked for Ygritte on the rare occasion she would let him, on the even rarer occasion she was in his apartment for longer than a few hours. And there had been a brief, heady period where he’d believed he loved her, where he’d been so enamored of her he’d been willing to do almost anything to be with her. But when she’d asked—demanded—he move Up North with her, leave Winterfell and what he’d come to think of as his duty behind, he realized there was a limit to what he would do for her. And if there was a limit, what he felt couldn’t truly be love.

So he’d told her no. Weathered the storm of her emotions as she begged and pleaded for him to change his mind before switching tactics entirely and telling him he knew nothing and would always be nothing. And in the end, he’d kissed her cheek one last time and wished her well.

When Tormund came to him, tears streaming down his ruddy face, and told him about the accident—no visibility, black ice, steep incline, no guardrail—he’d grieved without reservation. He might not have loved her, not the way she wanted or the way he’d always imagined love should be, but he had felt something for her. And the world was just a little darker, a little colder, without her and her fire in it.

“Maybe you should try it first.”

Jon blinked, lifting his gaze from the plate to Sansa’s face, her expression serious even as amusement glinted in her eyes. “Why’s that?”

“You’re staring at it like you’ve just realized you’ve forgotten some important ingredient.” Sansa picked up her wine glass, swirling the contents before taking a small sip. “Or like it owes you money.”

“Well, if it’s the latter I definitely won’t be getting that money now.” Jon forced himself to smile, to be in this moment with her. “And since it’s a new recipe it’s possible I forgot something but I won’t know until someone other than me tries it and I get some feedback.”

“Oh, so I’m your guinea pig tonight.” Sansa pulled the plate closer and picked up her fork, hand hovering over the dish for a moment. “Fish course?”

“Finnan Haddie.” Jon shrugged when Sansa lifted both brows. “It’s as Northern as you can get.”

“Haddock isn’t one of the fish normally served during this course.”

“Which is why it’s different.”

She shrugged. “True.” She used the edge of her fork to cut the fish, making a sound of approval low in her throat. “It cuts well. Did you use water or milk for the poaching?”

“Cream made from goat’s milk, infused with rosemary and thyme.” He watched as she took her first bite, chewing slowly, her brow creased in concentration. He resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the granite counter or to bounce his leg, forcing himself to stand calm and still while he waited for her opinion. After two more forkfuls, he couldn’t wait any longer. “Well?”

“I’m trying to figure out where the little bit of bite is coming from—it’s not spicy but it’s not sweet.” She pursed her lips, tapping her fork against the edge of the plate. “Cinnamon? Nutmeg?”

“It’s a coastal seasoning, from the bay.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek as she took another bite. “Sansa, please. I feel we know each other well enough for a little brutal honesty. How is it?”

“Jon.” She was halfway through the dish and showed no signs of stopping. “If it was horrible, do you think I’d still be eating it?”

“Maybe.” He picked up his own fork and went to work on his own plate. “I know how fond you are of your manners. What was it you mother used to say? Something about armor?”

“Hmm. ‘Courtesy is a lady’s armor.’ But Jon.” She took another sip of wine and lifted her gaze to his. “I feel we know each other well enough for me to say I have no need for armor of any kind around you.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy but not uncomfortable. After long minutes, Jon swallowed and said, “Thank you.”

“I do need to ask one question, though.”

“Anything.”

“Is there enough for breakfast tomorrow—well, this—morning?”

He smiled. “Maybe. Depends on how much of an appetite we work up between now and then. We may need to round it out with some eggs.”

“That’s acceptable.” She pushed her empty plate away, lifting and draining her wine glass, setting it to one side and resting her elbows on the island between them. “As for my appetite….” She trailed off, her gaze sweeping over his naked torso, the tip of her tongue peeping between her lips. “I’m already feeling fairly ravenous.”

“Really.” Jon would have sworn he felt, genuinely felt, all the blood drain from his head directly into his cock. He adjusted his rapidly hardening cock, the soft fleece lining of the gray sweatpants almost too much for the already sensitive head. When Sansa’s half smile shifted into a smirk, he mock frowned at her. “Sounds like my good girl is feeling greedy.”

“Maybe.” She raked a hand through her sex and sleep tousled hair, the long locks brilliantly copper against the plain white button down he’d offered her in lieu of a night shirt. Slipping off the barstool, she rounded the counter, trailing one hand over the granite, the other flirting with the hem of the shirt. “Although, depending on your viewpoint, one might say I’m feeling generous.”

Jon set the fork down, reaching blindly for his wine glass and taking a long sip. Exhaling, he rasped out, “Really.”

“Uh huh.” She nodded even as she slipped to her knees, as graceful as dancer. She lifted her hands, resting them on his hips, her fingertips seeming to burn his skin. There was a mischievous look in her eyes, one he’d never seen before, and he realized he was dizzy, light-headed, and she’d barely touched him. She flicked her tongue over her lips and he felt his cock pulse. “You’re always so good to me.”

“Because you’re my good girl.” He took a step back, bracing himself against the counter, biting his lip when she moved with him and then closer, pressing her face to the front of his sweatpants. “And good girls deserve good things.”

“So do daddies.” She stretched up, pressing her lips to the heated skin just above the waistband of his pants. "That’s what you like to be called, isn’t it? It’s what you called yourself earlier.” She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips curving in that smirk again. “Daddy.”

“Yeah.” The single word came out a hoarse exhalation and he swallowed, reaching down and threading one hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face. Hearing her call him ‘Daddy’ while she looked up at him, the perfect combination of alluring innocence, made him want to tell her to forget about sucking his cock because he needed to be buried to the hilt in her, but he set his teeth, grinding out his next words. “What does Daddy’s good girl want?”

“I want.” She shifted, kissing the sharp bone of his left hip. “To suck.” Another movement, another kiss, this time to his right hip. “Your cock.” A third kiss, directly below his belly button. She looked up at him again, her expression hungry. “Please, Daddy?”

“Such pretty manners.” He let his palm rest on top of her head, lightly, more for reassurance than direction or to pressure. “Since you asked so nicely… yes, sweet girl. You can suck Daddy’s cock.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” She reached up, hooking her fingers in the waistband of his pants and tugging down, waiting until he stepped out of the puddle of fleece and kicked it to one side before clearing her throat. “So, uh… you look… bigger from this angle.” She tilted her head back, tugging her tongue in her cheek. “Is that normal?”

“I promise I haven’t grown any in the last few hours.” He smiled, brushing a finger down the line of her nose. “Would you like some tips? Maybe a secret or two?”

She nodded, her eyes huge. “Yes. Please.”

“Despite what you may have heard, you don’t need to try and, uh, swallow the entire shaft.” Jon choked back a chuckle when her shoulders slumped in what could only be relief. “The most sensitive areas are the head and the inch or so past it. You should focus the majority of your oral attention there—you can use your hands to work what isn’t in your mouth.”

“And by work, you mean….” She trailed off, sliding her palm up his thigh, pausing for a moment before gripping his cock firmly in her soft, warm hand, giving an experimental stroke, her gaze steady on his face. When he sighed and leaned into her touch, she smiled, ever so slightly. “Like that?”

“A little harder.” He swallowed. “My preference.”

“Hmm.” She moved closer, her breath blowing over the head of his cock, and he had to resist the urge to lean his head back against the upper cabinets and close his eyes. This first time, he wanted to see everything, to see her, to commit everything about this moment to memory. She looked up at him and he caught his breath. “You promise you won’t be disappointed if I’m not… if I’m not good?”

“Sweet girl.” He scratched her scalp and she moved against his hand, almost purring. “You could never disappoint me.”

She opened her mouth, warm, moist air caressing his sensitive skin a second before her lips slid over the very tip of his cock, moving slowly upward, her tongue pressing flat to the underside of the head. She came to a stop inches away from her hand, taking slow, steady breaths through her nose, swallowing convulsively as salvia pooled in her mouth. Pulling back, his cock slipping free, she flicked her tongue over her lips and he struggled not to tighten his grip in her hair, certain the gesture would startle her. “Like that?”

“Yes.” His own throat constricted on the single word and he had to swallow twice before he managed to speak further. “You’re doing so well, sweet girl.”

She gave a happy sigh before sliding his cock into her mouth again, swirling her tongue over and around, her untrained motions unerringly hitting every sensitive spot. He groaned, unable to help himself, and then sucked in a broken breath when she redoubled her efforts, moving her tongue faster, bobbing her head ever so slightly. She pulled back again, her voice breathy when she spoke. “You don’t have to be quiet here, remember?”

“Yes, but….” He grunted, bucking his hips into her hand as she continued to stroke him. “I don’t know how comfortable you are with… with dirty talk.”

“Dirtier than what we’ve already done?” She cocked her head, the motion causing the tips of her hair to brush against his thigh and he groaned again. “Not like… degradation? Like bitch or whore or pig or—.”

“No. Gods no. Never.” Shock punctured the haze of arousal and he stroked her hair, smoothing it away from her forehead. “Are there some people who enjoy that particular type of play, that particular type of dynamic? Absolutely. I’m not one of them.”

“Okay.” She nodded, the tension in her face easing. “I didn’t… I didn’t think you were but I wanted to ask.”

“You should never be afraid to ask if you’re unsure about something we do together.” Jon let his hand rest on the top of her head, stroking her temple with his thumb. “If I say something and it makes you uncomfortable, pinch my thigh. Okay?”

“Okay.” She gave him a small smile before leaning forward and taking his cock back in her mouth, murmuring low in her throat. She stroked her hand in counterpart to the slight back and forward motion of her head, the combination ensuring every inch of his cock was given attention. She placed her other hand on his left thigh, bracing herself, gradually increasing her speed as she grew more comfortable with the act.

“Does Daddy’s sweet girl like sucking his cock?” He scratched her scalp again, groaning when he felt her resultant purr vibrate around the head of his cock. “I think she does. I think my sweet girl likes being on her knees for Daddy.” When she hummed in contentment, he bucked deeper into her mouth, but not too deep, remembering her concern about his length. “Just like that, sweet girl. Keep sucking Daddy like that and you’ll earn a very special reward.”

As he’d hoped, the encouragement, the praise, had Sansa redoubling her efforts, and without being asked she slid her hand from his thigh to cup his balls, holding them gently, massaging lightly. When his knees began to tremble, he leaned more heavily against the counter, his breaths beginning to shudder in and out of his lungs. “You’re doing so good, sweet girl. You’re taking Daddy’s cock so well. You’re going to make me cum so hard and it’s all for you, sweet girl. It’s all for—.” He broke off, groaning as she began to concentrate her attention directly on the underside of his cock, her tongue fluttering like the delicate wings of a bird. “Fuck, Sansa.”

Whether it was the expletive or the use of her given name, his exclamation spurred her on and she rose slightly on her knees, taking his cock deeper still, and he dropped his chin to his chest, struggling to draw a deep breath, to continue encouraging her. “Daddy’s going to cum now, sweet girl, and you’re going to swallow it all like the good girl you are. Just lap it up like cream.” He grunted, unable to stop himself from tightening his grip on her hair, moving his hips in short, sharp thrusts. “Now, good girl. Now, now, now—.”

He broke off with a groan as his orgasm took hold, spilling his release over her tongue, dimly aware of her sound of surprise as she started to pull back and then stilled and began swallowing, the constrictions only heightening and prolonging his pleasure. When he felt his release begin to slow, he drew back until just the head of his cock remained inside her mouth, resting on her tongue. She continued to lap at him, cleaning away the residual cum, until he finally slipped his cock free.

“Was it….” She trailed off, leaning forward and pressing her cheek to his thigh. “Did I do good?”

He would have laughed if he had the breath and if he didn’t know she wasn’t looking for compliments in the traditional sense. Pulling her to her feet, he kissed her, ignoring her gasp of shock as he swept his tongue inside her mouth, the faint taste of his release still on her tongue. Breaking the kiss, he said, “You were wonderful, good girl. Daddy is very, very proud of you.” He slipped one hand down to cup her ass, the other going to work on the buttons of the shirt. “However, there is a little matter we need to discuss.”

“Oh?”

“Somebody was a brat when we first got home.” He gave her ass a light smack, chuckling when she squeaked. “Do you remember that?”

“Yes, Daddy.” She dropped her gaze, chewing on her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s lovely to hear but Daddy still thinks you need to be punished.” He smiled when she sucked in a quick breath, lifting her gaze back to his, her pupils already beginning to dilate. “How many spankings do you think you need?”

She stared for a moment and he almost hoped she would guess low so he could add on extra spanks for her mistake. After a few minutes, she said, “Ten?”

“Since this is the first time you’ve been a brat—and we haven’t fully established what such behavior entails—I think that’s acceptable.” He was already imagining the bright red marks of his palm against her ivory skin. “Let’s return to the bedroom.”


	11. Entrée—Honeyed Chicken Breast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Punishment leads to rewards.
> 
> (Warning: Explicit sexual content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! My apologies for the delay in posting but, well, to be frank I am part of the job force currently being bent over a barrel and I've been focusing my energies the last few days on not giving in to anxiety and completely dissociating with the world at large.
> 
> My solution to this stress is, as usual, smut.
> 
> Because honestly, it's hard to be anxious about things when you're getting a healthy dose of praise kink and rough sex and dirty talk and... well, you get the picture.
> 
> As always, I appreciate all of you who read/comment/leave kudos, especially with the near constant turmoil of the world at the moment. I hope you all enjoy escaping into this little bit of kink (well, closer to 3K worth of kink) as I did. Happy reading, my fellow freaks.

"As much as I enjoy you in my shirt, I really am going to need to ask for it back.” Jon hooked a finger in the collar and used it to pull her against him, chuckling when she flushed and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Oh, come now, sweet girl. I let you keep your clothes on for your last punishment. And I distinctly remember telling you that next time that wouldn’t be the case. Do you remember that conversation?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Sansa chewed on her lower lip, looking up at him through her lashes, shifting her legs in a parody of a shy school girl. “But I thought, maybe….”

“Now, I think I’ve indulged you quite enough for one evening and I don’t believe in spoiling my good girl.” Her lips quirked upward in the tiniest of smirks and he reached around, giving her upper thigh the lightest of smacks, frowning and shaking his head. “See? That behavior right there tells me I have definitely overindulged you. It makes me wonder if ten strokes will be enough punishment.” He made quick work of the buttons, pushing the shirt off her shoulders and kicking it to one side. “Face down on the bed, sweet girl.”

She all but flung herself on the mattress, dragging over a pillow and resting her cheek on it. It wasn’t nerves knotting in her stomach, not really, more like the feeling you had the night before an important day or big event. Anticipation—that’s what it was. She swallowed, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder as the mattress dipped under her. Still, she jumped when he smacked her upper thigh again, not a true spank, but enough to get her attention. “Yes, Daddy?”

“First things first, sweet girl. Well….” He trailed off and she would have sworn she heard the smirk in his voice. “Second, since you being naked would be considered the first. When Daddy has to punish you for being a bad girl or for being a brat, he expects you to know which position to assume for your punishment.” He scribbled a fingernail down her spine, chuckling when she squirmed. “I’ve already demonstrated how I want you for an over-the-knee spanking. I’m not fond of administering punishment while you’re standing, although occasionally the situation might call for it, so in the event it does I’ll explain the appropriate position. In general, though, I prefer to deal out punishment with you on… well, not quite all fours, but close.”

He slipped his hands under her hips, coaxing her up on her knees. When she made to push to her elbows, he laid a hand between her shoulder blades, holding her in place, her torso and face still flat against the rumpled sheets. Brushing her hair to one side, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Bed, table, floor… wherever I tell you, sweet girl. If I say ‘face down’, I expect you to offer that pretty ass of yours up to me.” He waited a beat and then pinched her hip, not enough to bruise but enough to smart. “I’m waiting.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Sansa swallowed again but it did nothing to dispel the breathy quality of her voice. She did her best to remain absolutely still, even though he was so close she could feel the heat rolling off him in waves. “Are you… are you going to tie my hands?”

“Do you think I need to, sweet girl?”

She considered the question for a moment before answering. “I think you do.”

“Thank you for being honest with me.” She heard him moving behind her and the opening and closing of the drawer of the bedside table. He drew her arms over her head, pressing them against the mattress before releasing them and although he gave no verbal instructions she didn’t move, assuming he wanted her to remain still. She heard the whisper of something soft and then he lifted her wrists, looping the length of rope around and around them in a complicated pattern before finishing with a knot. He gave the bond a light tug, humming under his breath, before pressing a length of the cord between two of her fingers. “If you feel uncomfortable, either physically or emotionally, all you have to do is pull this and the knot will loosen and you’ll be able to wiggle your hands free. Do you remember your safe word?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl.” He moved until he was kneeling next to her, reaching behind him for something on the nightstand and bringing it into her line of sight. “Now, this is what I normally use for punishment.” He shifted again, lifting the worn leather belt to her hands and rubbing it against her fingers. “It’ll still sting and you’ll probably feel a little sore tomorrow but it won’t be as bad as it would be with newer leather and there will be fewer marks.”

Sansa waited for him to continue and when he didn’t, she said, “Is it my choice?”

“It’s always your choice. Safe, sane, and consensual—those are the cornerstones of any relationship involving BDSM.” Setting the belt aside, he raked the tangles out of her hair before starting to wind it together in a simple braid. “I prefer using the belt for actual punishment as opposed to a playful punishment to help establish distinct boundaries between the two.” Finishing the braid but not securing it, he brushed it over her shoulder before trailing a finger down her jaw. “But again, Sansa, it’s always your choice.”

She chewed on her lower lip, shifting her head until she was able to better see the belt. After a moment, she said, “Could we… could we try it with the belt and if it’s too much just… I don’t know… switch?”

“We could.” He leaned down and kissed her temple before picking up the belt again. “Now, one last bit before we begin. Do you remember from your previous spanking what I said about counting?”

She swallowed, curling her fingers into her palms. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl.” Another kiss to her temple. “Normally, I would expect you to say ‘thank you’ after each count but I think it might be better this time if you thanked me after every fifth stroke.” He straightened, smoothing a hand down her back and cupping her ass, squeezing once, almost as if testing its firmness. “That’ll also be when you evaluate whether you would like to continue with the belt or switch to an open palm. Do you remember what I told you about breathing and tensing?”

She nodded jerkily, her throat suddenly desert dry. Thankfully, he didn’t make her use her words this time, simply saying, “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

There was the faintest whistle in the air a second before the leather connected with her skin and she cried out, more from shock than from pain. Swallowing again, she whispered, “One.” She’d barely finished speaking before the belt came down again and she bit back a whimper. “Two.” Her ass was already starting to feel warm although there was no sting yet. She took a deep breath and exhaled as he brought the belt down, forcing herself to relax. “Three.” She closed her eyes, finding it easier to concentrate on the sensation of leather against skin growing increasingly sensitive. “Four.” Sparkling silver threads shot through the darkness and she sighed. “Five. Thank you, Daddy.”

He massaged one ass cheek and then the other, easing some of the pain. “Belt or hand, sweet girl?”

“Belt, please, Daddy.” She arched her ass into his hand, groaning when he squeezed the rounded globe tighter. “Please, Daddy.”

“My sweet girl is going to have such pretty pink cheeks when I’m finished with her.” It was the only warning he gave her before bringing the belt down in five quick strokes, barely giving her time to count each one. When she moaned out her thanks, he clucked his tongue. “Something tells me my sweet girl is enjoying this a little too much.” He slipped his hand between her thighs, cupping her cunt with his palm, stroking gently before suddenly thrusting two fingers inside her, clucking his tongue again when she bucked against his hand. “My good girl is absolutely soaked. I wonder if….” He trailed off, adjusting his hand until he was able to press his thumb to her clit. “I can make you cum all over my hand while I finish your punishment. Would Daddy’s good girl like that?”

She had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Yes, please, Daddy. Thank you.”

“There are those pretty manners I’m so fond of.” He began to fuck her with his fingers, rubbing her clit with a rough, almost harsh, motion. “Count for me, sweet girl.”

The belt came down and she pushed up toward it even as she moved against Jon’s hand. “Eleven.”

He scraped his nail over her clit and she would have sworn she saw stars. “Twelve.”

He curved his fingers, pressing them against her g-spot even as he began to slam his palm against the swollen folds of her cunt, bringing the belt down in two quick slashes, left cheek and then right. She gasped out, “Thirteen. Fourteen.”

“Last one, sweet girl.” His breathing was as ragged as hers, the sound of his palm connecting with her wet cunt almost obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room. “I want you to cum all over Daddy’s fingers and all over Daddy’s sheets so I can clean you up with my mouth and then bury my cock in you and fuck you until you cum again and again and—.” He brought the belt down, the crack of leather obscuring his last words, his thumbnail scraping the underside of her clit, his fingers grinding against her g-spot.

She screamed, a low, hoarse cry from deep in her throat as she came all over his fingers, the knot of tension snapping and releasing, wetness spilling out of her and coating her inner thighs even as pleasure shot through her and she collapsed flat against the mattress. She rode out her release with the same abandon as she rode his hand, the pillow doing nothing to muffle her moans. After long minutes, she went limp and whispered, “Fifteen. Thank you, Daddy.”

His only response was to roll her to her back, shove her thighs apart, and set his mouth to her cunt, licking up the folds of her pussy and then down before spreading the overly sensitive skin wide and curling his tongue around her clit. She barely had time to register the sensation, pleasure bleeding to the edge of pain, before he slid his hands under her, cupping her ass and lifting her against his mouth. The change in angle caused her legs to fall open wider and he took immediate advantage, sliding his tongue down and beginning to tongue fuck her with the same fervor she’d fucked his hand.

In this position, there was nothing to quiet her sounds of pleasure and so she didn’t try, simply letting him devour her, his hands massaging her ass, keeping her cunt flush against his mouth. The rasp of his beard against her skin was another source of pleasure/pain and she wondered, vaguely, how he expected her to survive so much sensation. When the second orgasm hit with enough force to bow back, she sobbed out her release even as she wondered, dimly, if it was possible to pass out from too pleasure. Even as she wondered it, though, Jon lowered her to the mattress, immediately flipping her over and pulling her up to her knees, canting her hips back and thrusting his cock to the very hilt.

She moaned, turning her face and pressing her cheek against the mattress before glancing over her shoulder at him. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, his lips and chin and beard glistening with her wetness. As she watched, he swallowed once, twice, clearly struggling for control, before exhaling slowly, lowering his head and opening his eyes. His pupils were huge, almost completely blocking out the gray of his iris and when he spoke his voice was a low, gravely rasp. “Do you have any idea how hard I want to fuck you? Until you can’t remember your own name, until the only thing you remember is my name and the way my cock feels inside you and—.”

“Do it.” She pushed back against him, ignoring the twinge of pain, the ache in her pelvis from the pressure of too many orgasms. “Do it, Daddy, fuck your good girl, fuck me and make me scream, make me cum all over your cock and—.”

“Seven hells.” He gripped her hip with one hand, stretching the other up and over her shoulder, brushing two fingers over her lips until she flicked her tongue over the tips then pushing them in to the first knuckle. “Daddy’s good girl needs something in that dirty, filthy mouth of hers before she gets in more trouble.”

She sucked his fingers in time to his thrusts, sucked them as she’d done his cock earlier that evening, her whole world narrowing to the slam of his hips against hers, his cock in her cunt, her tongue around his fingers. Liquid dripped on her back, rolled down her side, and for a moment wondered how it could be raining inside before she realized it was sweat, his and hers, and she groaned around his fingers, meeting each thrust of his hips with her own.

His strokes grew shorter, sharper, and he began to grind his hips against hers with each inward thrust, his cock rubbing against her g-spot with each stroke. Her clit pulsed in time with her heartbeat, with the dull ache in her ass, and she knew she was minutes away from cumming again and so was Jon and she wanted, needed, him to cum with her, to feel him release inside her. She would have told him so, would have begged, but with his fingers in her mouth all she could do was whimper and wiggle against him.

“Daddy knows, sweet girl.” The affirmation came out on a series of broken breaths and although she wouldn’t have thought it possible he began to fuck her even harder, sliding his fingers from her mouth and bracing his hand on the mattress next to her head. “Daddy knows what you want. Tell Daddy, sweet girl, tell me what you want.”

She wanted to tell him she needed him to fuck her, she needed to cum, needed his cum, but even as she opened her mouth to tell him, he thrust one last time, grinding hard against her, and she cried out, “Daddy!” and gave herself over to the series of orgasms, each shorter than the last, before finally collapsing on the bed, Jon on top of her, his weight comforting as the shudders continued to wrack both their bodies. After long minutes, he slid out of her and rolled to his back next to her, reaching over and untying her wrists.

“Turn over, baby.” Slowly, as if moving through water or a dream, Sansa did as he asked, sighing contentedly as he unwound the rope from her wrists, dropping it on the floor on the opposite side of the bed before beginning to massage her wrists and forearms, his gaze steady, his expression serious. “Sometimes you can have cramping if you’ve been tied up too long or too tight. How do you feel?”

“Fine.” She giggled then giggled again at how silly the sound was given where they were and what they’d just done. Swallowing down a third bout of giggles, she said, “Great. Wonderful.” She snorted out a giggle and said, “Why can’t I stop laughing?”

“Endorphins. You, my good girl, are high as a kite.” He smiled down at her as he continued to massage her wrists. “To be fair, I’m a little blissed out myself.”

“Is that—.” She broke off when she started giggling again. “Normal?”

“The high? Yes. The laughing? Apparently for you it is, which is all that matters.” He lowered her wrists to the mattress, leaning over and brushing his lips across hers. “As soon as we can walk without falling on our faces, we’ll have a nice, long bath and then I’ll change the sheets and we’ll cuddle up in bed and watch a movie until we fall asleep.”

“The sheets.” Sansa felt the flush sweep from her cheeks down her throat and over her chest. “I made a really big mess, didn’t I?”

“You squirted, which is only disappointing because my face wasn’t buried in your cunt at the time.” He brushed the sweat soaked hair from her forehead. “And I have no problems with changing the sheets because it means we both enjoyed ourselves immensely.”

She sighed, her eyes fluttering shut. “I could fall asleep right now.”

“Aftercare first and then we can sleep until noon if you want.” He tapped the tip of her nose. “Games aren't finished until aftercare is finished, sweet girl.”

“Okay.” Still, she made no effort to move and neither did he. Clearing her throat, she said, “What kind of games are we going to play tomorrow?”

“That’s a surprise but only if you’re a good girl.” He trailed a single finger down the center of her torso, flattening his palm on her stomach. “Are you going to be a good girl?”

“Yes, Daddy.”


	12. Sorbet—Blueberry, Basil, and Champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa lay themselves bare.
> 
> (Warning: Mention of violence/death, non-graphic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who joined the ranks of the unemployed? Yes, I know it's not just me but this is the first in close to sixteen years I've not had job security and it's hella stressful. So, naturally, it's fan-fic time.
> 
> This chapter, much like the sorbet course in fine dining, is designed to clear and prepare the palette for the remainder of the meal. So don't fret, my fellow freaks, there will be more delicious smut in the forthcoming chapters. We have roughly ten more courses to make our way through and while Sansa and Jon need to tackle Restaurant Week and their competitors, that doesn't mean there won't be time for fun and games.
> 
> As always, thank you for your continued support. In times like this, when the world is gearing up for the apocalypse, knowing people are still reading and enjoying this work is greatly appreciated. Happy reading, folks.

Jon woke slowly, blinking as he rose toward consciousness. The room was dark, thanks in no small part to the blackout curtains currently concealing his view of Winter Town. When he turned his head to look at the bedside clock, he saw it was already past nine, not surprising since it had been close to three before either of them had fallen asleep. Rolling to his other side, he pillowed his head on his arm and studied Sansa, still sleeping, her face half covered by her sleep tangled hair.

He was a fool. He’d been telling himself some variation of that sentiment since they’d woken up on her office sofa… gods, had it not even been a week? Truth be told, he’d been a fool for longer than that. All the kitchen staff had remarked on his behavior, the way he watched her, the way he talked with her, the way he smiled; Tormund had actually come right out and said it was the most he’d ever seen Jon smile and he’d known the man for close to five years. He knew what people were saying—that he’d bent the knee to his cousin, without even the slightest hesitation, without any regard for what she might do to him and his heart.

They were right, of course. She could break him, ruin him, and he would not only allow it he would beg for her to do it again.

He rubbed his chest, the scar which rode dangerously close to his heart raised and rough under his hand, and continued to study her. She must have felt the weight of his stare because she stirred, murmuring some nonsense under her breath before opening her eyes, her gaze soft and unfocused. She licked her lips and cleared her throat before whispering, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” He reached over and brushed her hair away from her face, something he’d wanted to do since he woke but also hadn’t, afraid he would wake her. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” She wiggled a little and then winced, turning on her side to face him. “My ass is sore but I expected that.”

“It’ll ease some throughout the day and I’ve pillows if you feel the need for extra cushion.” He combed his fingers through her hair, twirling the ends absently. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” She reached over, tracing the line of his scar with a single finger. “I don’t usually eat much in the morning.”

“Hmm.” He continued playing with her hair, content to stay here in bed with her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a woman stay the night; even Ygritte, who’d been his most serious relationship to date, had never stayed the night, leaving as soon as she was able to stumble into her clothes and out the door. “Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t know.” Some of the sleepiness faded from her gaze, alertness creeping in. “You can ask and I’ll try to answer but….”

“It’s not about Bolton. Or Baelish.” He stroked his hand down her side, curving his fingers over her hip. “You’ll never have to talk about them unless you want to, although I wonder if you’ve considered speaking to a therapist.”

“I would have to find one I could trust.” She sighed, her lips curving in a soft, sad smile which made Jon want to do nothing so much as kiss it away. “And these days I can count on two hands the number of people I trust and still have fingers left over.”

“Okay.” He wouldn’t push the issue, not now, but he tucked it away for a later discussion. “Would you tell me what happened down South? Why the Lannisters were in Winterfell tonight? Well, last night.”

“There’s not much to tell.” She didn’t move even an inch but Jon would have sworn he felt her pull away from him and he almost regretted the question. “I enrolled in Red Keep, which is headed by Tywin Lannister. The business and hospitality program essentially runs Casterly Rock, which is the school restaurant—it’s where students get practical experience while helping the Lannisters keep their labor costs down since everybody is classified as an intern.” She rolled to her back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s where I met Joffery.”

“The Lannister heir.”

“Technically Jamie is the heir, since Joffery is legally a Baratheon, but after Jamie’s accident Tywin adjusted his will and the company structure, leaving everything to Joffery.” She closed her eyes, her brows drawing together in the tiniest of frowns. “I don’t know the details. I wasn’t paying attention, really, I was so focused on school.” She sighed, rubbing her temple. “Anyway, I started dating Joffery and it was… well, it was the epitome of a whirlwind romance. Flowers and jewelry and trips… he made me feel like a princess, especially when he proposed.” She lowered her hand, reaching for Jon’s, and he laced their fingers together. “And then he met Margaery and he and Tywin decided the Tyrells were a better connection—more money, less interest in the industry—and he broke off the engagement.”

He waited for her to continue and when she didn’t, he said, “Finish it.”

“His uncle—not Jamie, Tyrion—felt horrible about the situation, especially since after the engagement ended I was considered persona non grata on campus. So he went out of his way to help me. He acted as a mentor—he’s far more knowledgeable about the industry than either of his siblings, maybe almost as knowledgeable as his father—and when Mom and Dad and Robb and Rickon died, he was… he was like a rock.” Her voice trembled but didn’t break and she swallowed and when she spoke again her voice was once more steady. “He has—had—a girlfriend, Shae, and she was the only friend I had, other than Tyrion. And then… and then I woke up one morning and opened the paper and read that he’d murdered her. For me.”

“The papers said the three of you were involved in some strange love triangle and she’d told him he had to choose between the two of you.”

“I don’t know if Tyrion had feelings for me or not but I never felt anything like that for him.” She sighed again. “The paper was right about the love triangle but wrong about the participants. It came out that Shae was also involved with Tywin and when Tyrion found out he killed her.” She looked so sad, so lost, he wanted nothing so much as to cuddle her against him, to stroke and comfort and promise he’d protect her from everything, but he knew it was important that she finish. “Tywin pulled some strings, greased some palms, had evidence planted so it looked as if Shae had been the one to instigate the incident, and Tyrion was found not guilty. Tywin shipped him off across the Narrow Sea and I guess at some point Tyrion took a job with this new restaurant group.”

“And you came home to Winterfell.” _And me._ But he wouldn’t voice that particular thought yet. “So why, if they have all this power and prestige and reach, were they in our dining room?”

“Like you said, they wanted to see the competition.” She rolled toward him again, scooting closer, and he pressed his hand to the small of her back. “I was told often enough by enough people that Winterfell is the key to the North—if you can hold Winterfell, you hold the North.” She opened her eyes, her lips shifting into a smirk. “And we have Winterfell. Not them.”

“So they’re nervous.”

“They’re nervous.” She brushed her hand over his curls, her gaze steady on his. “I’d like to ask a question.”

“Okay.” He had a sinking suspicion what the question would be but she’d answered his; it wouldn’t be fair to not do the same.

“Who is Ygritte?”

He didn't ask where she'd heard the name. There was no telling and he knew his staff well enough to know any mention of her wouldn't have been malicious. And, more importantly, he had nothing to hide. “A woman I was involved with for… maybe six months. Tormund’s cousin. An artist.” He smiled at the memory, unable to help himself. “Metal sculptures. The first time she told me she was an artist and I asked her what she painted she kicked me in my knee.” His smile faded. “She wanted to move Up North and she wanted me to go with her. I told her no. She told me I was a fool who knew nothing and she left. There was an accident on the way Up North. And she died.”

“I’m sorry.” She continued to stroke his hair, the gesture soft, comforting. “Did you love her?”

“There were times I thought I did. And then she asked me to leave Winterfell and I couldn’t and I knew whatever I felt for her, it wasn’t love. If I’d loved her, I would have been able to leave.”

“Did you ever consider that if she loved you, she wouldn’t have asked you to leave?” She scratched the nape of his neck and he grunted, stretching under her touch. After a moment, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for telling me about the South.” He pressed his thumb to her lower lip. “Can I kiss you now?”

Her lip curved under his touch and he felt himself tumble down a little further. “Yes, please.”

And so he kissed her, the faintest brush of his lips to hers, once, twice, three times, until he lost count and lost himself in her, letting her roll them until she was flat on her back and he was sprawled atop her, her hands fisted in his hair, his own braced to either side of her head, her hair cool and slippery against his palms. When she shifted, cradling his lower body between her thighs, he slipped inside her with the ease of a lifetime of coupling and not a single night, as if they’d always been this way. As if they always would.

As if, finally, he’d found home.


	13. Releve—Roasted Leg of Lamb with Honeyed Cider and Winter Berries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An afternoon of games.
> 
> (Warning: Dirty talk, BDSM, breathplay, etc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't like a little smut with their apocalypse?
> 
> If it's you, dear readers, you're going to want to avert your gazes because this chapter is absolute FILTH. I considered updating the tags but I think the warning above should suffice as well as the fact I'm using the word FILTH. ABSOLUTE FILTH.
> 
> (It's not, honestly, at least to me, but maybe I just outed myself as a filthy person in the sexual sense.)
> 
> Definitely the dirtiest chapter to date, which makes sense as the releve course in fine dining is generally considered to be the heaviest and the centerpiece, if you will, of the meal. This isn't to say the smut will be abating after this--uh, no. There is still QUITE a lot for our lovely couple to explore and a number of games left for them to play and if the apocalypse continues at its current pace I'll have more than enough time to write them.
> 
> As always, dear readers/fellow perverts, I thank you for your various signs of appreciation, be they comment, kudo, or simply reading. Enjoy yourselves, darlings.

“I can’t believe you.” Sansa speared a roasted baby potato on her fork and held it aloft, studying it for a moment before popping it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully and then swallowing. “Roasted lamb? For lunch? Do I even want to know what you have planned for dinner?”

“Nothing nearly as extravagant, I promise.” Jon cut another sliver of lamb and transferred it to her plate, drizzling some of the dark, sticky sauce over the succulent meat. “I don’t think either of us are going to have the energy to try and put together a full meal later.”

“Oh?” She lifted her brows, hoping she seemed cool and sophisticated and mildly amused and not giddy and excited and mildly aroused. If Jon’s smirk was any indication, she was failing miserably. “I thought you said we were going to just hang out and watch movies.”

“We are.” Jon helped himself to some more lamb, garnishing his plate with some of the charred kale, continuing to watch her in much the same way a patient cat might watch an unaware mouse. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun. Maybe play a game.”

Sansa swallowed. “What kind of game?”

“Finish your meal, sweet girl. You’re going to need your strength.”

*******

“Jon.” Sansa stared at the device on the bed, blinking slowly before shifting her gaze to him, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, watching her. “I don’t….” She trailed off, chewing on her lower lip for a moment before blurting out, “I don’t think that’ll fit.”

“Baby.” To his credit, he didn’t laugh but only smiled. “It’s no bigger than I am.”

“Are you sure?” She picked it up, turning it over in her hands, studying it, before glancing at him. “I mean… you’re not small but this seems bigger than you.”

“Thank you for the lovely compliment, sweet girl, but I promise you it isn’t.” Pushing off the door frame, he sauntered over to her, tugging the belt of her silk robe loose and sliding his hand underneath it, curving his arm around her waist and pulling her against him. “Would you like me to explain what it is and what it does and how I plan to use it on you?”

“Yes, please.” She handed it to him, nestling her face in the curve of his neck and breathing him in.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of vibrators in general. This one—.” He held it up so it was once again in her line of sight, sliding his other hand down to cup her ass. “—Is designed to stimulate both your clit and your g-spot at the same time, something I know you’re particularly fond of having done. Additionally, it’s wireless and handsfree, letting me control it from my phone—speed, intensity, and duration of vibration.”

“O-oh.” Sansa straightened, pulling away slightly, her eyes widening as the implications of his statement struck her. She shifted her gaze from him to the device and back again. “It does a lot.”

“It does.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Now, as to how I plan to use it on you… in your research—which I know you’ve done because my good girl is studious to a fault—have you read anything about edging?”

“Yes.” She squealed when he gave her ass a gentle pinch. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl. Now, because this is your first time, I don’t think we’ll have a particularly long session. Only a few movies.” He tossed the toy on the bed, pushing the robe off her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor, stroking his hands over her body until she was trembling, the faintest of flushes coloring her cheeks and neck and working its way down to her breasts. “And what do you think the most important rule for this little game is, sweet girl?”

Sansa swallowed. “No cumming.”

“Not until our little movie date is finished.”

*****

Jon watched her out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to notice the way she squirmed against the cushions or how she bit her lower lip and closed her eyes when she got too close to the edge or how she whined under her breath whenever he shut the vibrator off. So far, she’d done very, very well—no begging, no complaining, no attempts to try and wheedle an orgasm out of him. Then again, they’d only just started the second movie in the film trilogy he’d chosen.

And since each movie ran roughly three hours, he fully anticipated her breaking before movie night was finished.

As if on cue, she scooted across the sofa and curled up against him, her bare breasts resting on his arm, her slight frame sweat sheened and trembling. “You could have warned me.”

“Hmm?” He shifted her on to his lap, giving himself better access to her breasts. He had, admittedly, not paid them as much attention as he should have but he too often found himself distracted by the rest of her charms. “Warned you about what, sweet girl?”

“That we were going to be watching the _Oldstones_ trilogy.” She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, her breath fanning his neck. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Pick a series of movies which in its individual components is extraordinarily long but taken together becomes something of an epic tale requiring more than a bit of endurance?” He cupped one breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple, humming under his breath when it peaked and rose to his touch. “Maybe. Does my sweet girl have a problem with Daddy’s choice?”

“Maybe.” She pushed her lower lip out in a picture perfect—and perfectly adorable—pout and Jon had to resist the urge to lean over and kiss her. “It’s been _hours_ , Daddy.”

“I did warn you, sweet girl.” He pinched her nipple, wondering absently if he’d be able to introduce her to clamps before they had to go back to work on Tuesday. He shot her a mock glare, forcing himself to scowl when she whimpered and arched her back, pressing her breast more firmly into his hand. “If you continue with this kind of behavior you’re going to force me to punish you again.”

She pursed her lips in a little moue, peeking up at him from under her lashes. “But _Daddy_.”

“Who is this very bad girl on my lap and what did she do with my good girl?” Apparently Sansa had been more than thorough in her research because she was playing the role of a bratty sub with the sort of practiced ease Jon had always wanted to see in a partner but so far hadn’t. He pinched her nipple again, harder this time, frowning in mock disapproval when she pretended to squirm away. “I think you need something to distract your wet little cunt.” He eased her to the floor, arching his hips and pushing his sweatpants down and off, giving her something to rest her knees on. Wrapping one hand around his cock, he began to stroke himself, growing harder when she licked her lips. “Why don’t you apologize to Daddy for being such a brat, hmm?”

“Yes, Daddy.” She shifted closer, her loose hair falling over his thighs, her eyes shining with anticipation. “Please let me apologize for being a bad girl.”

“Do a good job and maybe Daddy won’t punish you later.” He let his cock slip free from his hand, biting the inside of cheek when she immediately replaced it with her own, her warm breath blowing over the head. Even though he wanted to watch her, he shifted his gaze back to the television screen and the movie, although his attention remained firmly on the woman at his feet. Tapping his phone screen, he opened the app for the vibrator, setting the vibrations low and slow, smiling when she gasped. “You didn’t think I was going to make it easy for you, did you, darling? Where’s the fun in that?”

As soon as she slid the head of his cock in her mouth, he increased the vibrations the slightest bit. With every downward motion on his shaft, he increased the vibrations. With every upward pull of her mouth, he decreased the vibrations, never ceasing them entirely. She picked up on the pattern sooner than he’d anticipated, swallowing his cock quickly and holding it in her mouth for as long as possible before pulling back at an agonizingly slow pace. When she focused her attention on the vein running up the underside of the shaft, he rewarded her with a series of long, drawn out pulses, dropping the vibrations down to the lowest setting when she began to squirm and pant around his cock.

“No cumming.” When she groaned and pulled back, his cock popping free from her mouth, slick and shiny with her spit, he leaned forward and tapped three fingers against her cheek—not a slap, more akin to the gesture one might use to rouse a sleeping person, but it was still enough of a shock to have her opening her eyes and widening them, her breath coming just a little faster. He waited for her to use her safe word and when she only continued to stare at him, he said, “Sansa.”

“Hmm.” She nodded, her eyes a little glassy, before she rubbed her cheek against his hand, her eyelids fluttering shut, and he clenched his jaw, waiting for her to answer him. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her breath shuddering in and out of her lungs. “Would you… I mean….” She trailed off but Jon had a feeling he knew what she wanted.

He tapped her cheek again, still not hard enough to leave more than the most temporary of marks but definitely more of a slap than before.

She moaned, sliding his cock back in her mouth and halfway down her throat, not stopping until she almost, but not quite, gagged. She fisted her hands in the cushions to either side of his legs, taking slow, deep breaths through her nose, her tongue swirling around his cock. He gathered up her hair in one hand, noting with little surprise that he was shaking. “I’m fairly certain good girls aren’t supposed to like being slapped in the face. So what, I wonder, does that make you?”

She pulled back, his cock slipping free from her mouth and down her chin, leaving the faintest smear of precum on her skin. When she spoke her voice was hoarse, raspy, and he wondered if it was from his cock or her own arousal. “A bad, bad girl, Daddy.”

“Yes, you are.” He took his cock in his hand again, moving in quick, even strokes. He’d planned on cumming in her mouth but with this new hint of how dirty, how submissive, Sansa was willing to be, he changed his mind. “Cup your breasts for me, sweet girl, and play with those hard nipples of yours. Daddy’s going to cum all over you. You’ll like that, won’t you? Daddy’s cum all over those pretty little breasts, covering all that pure, porcelain skin, marking you as Daddy’s filthy, bad girl.”

“Yes, please, Daddy.” She rose up slightly on her knees, moving closer, presenting her breasts to him and he began to stroke faster, feeling the tightening in his balls. She licked her lips, her jaw falling open slightly, and for the briefest of moments he considered starting his orgasm in her mouth and finishing on her breasts only to discard the idea. He didn’t trust himself to pull out and as much as he loved the feel of her lips and tongue around his cock, he desperately needed to see his cum all over her skin. “Please cum, Daddy, please cum all over my breasts. I’ve been such a bad, bad girl, I need you to cum all over me and—.”

She broke off with a gasp when Jon groaned, the first spurt of cum splashing on the pushed up swell of her right breasts and over her fingers. He continued stroking, adjusting the angle of his cock, the second stream of cum landing between her breasts. The third landed directly on her left nipple and she gasped again, the breathy sound shooting through Jon’s blood like the finest wine. He forced himself to straighten and move closer, the head of his cock brushing her breasts during the last two spurts, his slick and slippery cum already beginning to drip down her torso. Before he could find the breath to speak, she bent down and swirled her tongue around the head of his cock, cleaning him with soft, neat licks, effectively keeping him hard.

“Enough.” He knew his voice was hard, almost cruel, but at the moment he didn’t care. He gave her a gentle push, tumbling her to her back, sliding to his knees between her sprawled open legs. He slipped the vibrator from her cunt with one hand, swiping a finger from the other through some of the cum covering her breasts and raising it to her lips, grunting when she cleaned his finger with the same enthusiasm she’d shown his cock. “Daddy needs to fuck you.” He watched her face light up and he shook his head. “No, you still can’t cum. Not unless Daddy changes his mind.”

“I just want Daddy’s cock.” She sucked his finger back in her mouth, nibbling on the tip, her pupils so dilated they almost obscured the brilliant blue of her eyes. He pulled his finger free and she released it with a ‘pop’, the simple sound somehow mocking and obscene. She wrapped her legs around his waist, canting her hips up to him. “Please, Daddy, fuck me, please.”

He thrust inside her, clenching his jaw at the smooth, tight, wetness of her cunt. She let out a low, keening sound and he leaned forward, bracing his weight on one arm, resting his palm on her throat. The sweat was already beginning to pool in the small of his back and he had to resist the urge to simply take her as hard and fast and violently as possible, to take and take and take until neither of them were able to move. He took a deep breath, forcing the thought away and forcing himself back into his mentoring role. “This, my hand on your throat, is the most mild form of breath play. The slight lack of oxygen heightens sensation and helps with endorphin production—with the high.” He waited until she nodded before continuing. “Obviously you won’t be able to speak so a verbal safeword isn’t enough. Tap my arm twice if you need to breathe, three times if you feel you’re about to cum and need a moment.”

She nodded and he curled his fingers around the side of her throat, squeezing until he felt her swallow. Only then did he begin to roll his hips, wanting to draw the session out as long as possible. He kept pressure on her clit and her throat, not easing up on the latter until she tapped his arm twice. She sucked in a deep breath, her voice thin and high-pitched. “Oh, gods. Jon—.”

“If it’s too much—.”

“It is but not like that.” She drew in a shallow breath, exhaling slowly. “It feels… can you squeeze tighter?”

“Fuck.” He froze, fighting again with those animal urges. He recognized the signs of a woman in sub space, almost too far gone to know her own limitations, and as much as he wanted to give in to his own urges, it was his responsibility to maintain boundaries and safety. “Next time, sweet girl. Let’s ease in to it, okay?”

“Okay.” Her smile was already a little drunk, a little hazy, and when Jon tightened his grip on her throat, her eyelids fluttered shut and the most delicious moan slipped from her lips. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Such a good girl.” He began rolling his hips again, harder, faster, his pubic bone grinding against her clit. Her breasts brushed against his chest, the slick cum mixing freely with his sweat and hers. His lungs were burning with each breath, his muscles trembling with the strain of holding back. At her quick two tap, he eased his grip, letting her draw a series of deep breaths while he continued to grind his hips against hers. “I think my good girl has more than made up for her bratty behavior.” He squeezed her throat again, shifting from rolls to short, sharp thrusts. “I think my good girl can cum as many times as she wants, whenever she wants.” She made a low, desperate sound, and he began to move even faster, his hips piston fast, his cock aching as the muscles in her cunt squeezed him tighter and tighter. “Whenever you want, good girl, you just cum all over Daddy’s cock, cum and cum and cum and—.”

She grabbed his wrist, her eyelids flying open, her gaze suddenly clear. And then the combination of hours of edging and his harsh pounding of her cunt and his hand on her throat coalesced into the perfect storm and she broke under him, her scream of release vibrating against his palm until he released her throat, bracing his hand next to her head. Her orgasm snapped the leash of his control and he found himself fucking her harder and harder, his own hips aching from his continued thrusting, his only concern burying himself as deep in her as possible.

She came again, squirting around his cock, the warm wetness making it that much easier to drive his cock into her cunt. Half crazed, he went up to his knees, grabbing her calves and bringing them up to rest against his chest. The change in position gave him more leverage, allowed him to thrust an inch deeper, if that, but the added depth and the increased tightness of her cunt was enough to have him throwing his head back, crying his own release toward the ceiling, his hips bucking uncontrollably until, finally, exhausted, he slumped forward, rolling to lay on his back next to her, struggling to draw a deep breath.

After long minutes, he turned to look at her, studying her limp form, her half open mouth, her dazed expression. It was an effort, a surprising one, to roll on his side and he reached over, pushing her sweat tangled hair from her face. When his fingers brushed her lips, she stirred, her tongue peeping out, and even though he knew it was more instinctive, the result of being deep in subspace, he still felt his stomach tighten with desire. Clearing his throat, he said, “Sansa.”

“Hmm.”

“We’re going to get up here in a minute and take a shower. I’m going to wash your hair and scrub you clean and then I’m going to bundle you up in bed with a cup of tea and some soothing music.” He stroked a finger down her jaw. “If you’re tired, you can take a nap.”

“Aftercare.”

“Yes.”

“What about you?” She turned her head and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Don’t you get aftercare?”

“For me, taking care of you is my aftercare.” Not the full truth but not a lie and he knew she was still not coherent enough for an in-depth discussion on the difference between aftercare for submissives and aftercare for dominants. “Come on, love. Shower time.”

It was only later, when she was dozing next to him, a documentary about Bran the Builder playing in the background, that he realized what he’d called her.


	14. Roti—Stuffed Poussin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A disagreement, a fight, a call for help, a confession.
> 
> (Warning: mention of past abuse, mild violence)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back again, fellow members of the apocalypse! By we, I mean myself and my cat, although I refuse to give her writing credit since she just sits and stares at me with all the judgment of the ghosts of my ancestors and former English teachers. But I digress.
> 
> This is a smut free chapter, my friends. That's right--ZERO SMUT. For one, the story demanded it and in general, what the story wants, the story gets, and for two, my brain honestly refused to write smut. It refused to even entertain the possibility of writing smut. So we're getting plot today, friends, juicy, JUICY plot, and hopefully you find it as enjoyable as our usual meal of smut.
> 
> Speaking of plot, as mentioned in the summary, there is mention of past abuse and there is some mild violence. There's also some direct quotes from the show (insert disclaimer about not being owned by me, etc) as they seemed contextually appropriate and one in particular is, for me, one of the most brutal callouts in not only the show but in film in general and I fucking love it and the power behind it.
> 
> As always, your various forms of support, be it commenting, leaving kudos, or simply reading, are greatly appreciated. And, as always, happy reading.

“What are you doing?” Jon frowned at Sansa—or rather her back—across the kitchen. “Sans?”

“Why, I’m embroidering a handkerchief, of course.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, shooting him a smile and an eyeroll. “I’m starting what will eventually be dinner.”

“But… why?” He continued to frown, watching as she rough chopped what looked like chestnuts.

“Because I’m assuming we’re going to want to eat dinner at some point and I thought, since you’re always cooking for me, it would be nice if I cooked for you for once.” She set the knife down and turned to face him fully, her smile fading away. Drawing herself up, she clasped her hands in front of her, projecting a cool regality not diminished by the messy apron or the undercurrent of hurt in her eyes. “I didn’t think it would be an issue but clearly it is so please accept my—.”

“Sansa, stop.” He raked his hand through his hair and huffed out a breath, wondering how he’d managed to make such a colossal error with such little effort. “You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re unhappy I’m in your kitchen.”

“I’m not unhappy. I’m… honestly, ‘surprised’ seems an understatement. Maybe ‘flabbergasted’? I don’t know.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and blew out another breath, struggling to put his thoughts into some sort of coherent sentence. “I’ve never had anyone cook for me. Ever.”

Sansa frowned, some of the coolness melting from her gaze. “No one? Not a friend or a girlfriend or—.”

“I started cooking when I was about fourteen or fifteen because it was either learn how to cook or not get fed since there was no telling when Lyanna would roll in from wherever she’d been.” Jon shrugged—he’d long ago accepted that his mother had done the best she could given the cards she’d been dealt in life: teenage pregnancy and an abusive boyfriend who became an abusive husband who became an abusive ex-husband would have been enough to break even the strongest of people. Lyanna had chosen to try and patch herself back together with drugs and alcohol and other men. Ned Stark had helped as much as he could—as much as his wife would let him—but even he’d finally had to accept that Lyanna Stark couldn’t be saved. “When I was in culinary school, I worked in the student kitchen so I was usually the one making food for everyone and once I graduated it was just assumed Jon would cook because, well, that’s what I went to school for, right?”

“I went to school to learn how to analyze spreadsheets and calculate an acceptable profit margin but it doesn’t mean I like to do it every minute of the day.” Sansa crossed her arms and scowled and Jon couldn’t say why but her indignation on his behalf for old slights set his heart to aching. “Not even Ygritte? I mean, she was your most serious relationship and—.”

“Ygritte thought of food as fuel and the only reasons she needed fuel were to make art or fuck and she would always choose the former over the latter.” Hoping the worst had passed, he crossed the room, stroking his hands up and down her arms, his gaze steady on her face. “I’ve never had anyone cook for me and so when I walked in here and saw you doing just that, I genuinely didn’t know what to think. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.” He tilted her chin up with one hand, leaning in and brushing his lips over hers. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She unfolded her arms and wrapped them around him, squeezing him tight, and he sighed in relief, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to her temple. After a moment, she cleared her throat and said, “So was that our first fight?”

“I would call it more of a misunderstanding than a fight but if it means we can have make-up sex later….” Jon trailed off with a chuckle when she winced and he wrapped his arm around her waist, content to simply hold her for a moment. “Yeah, I thought you might feel that way. We’ve had a few fairly intense play sessions this weekend. I would be surprised if you weren’t a little tired and sore.”

“I mean, if you want to, we could—.”

“No. You should never feel you need to do something simply because I want to do it or you think I want you to do it and that goes for things outside of the bedroom as well.” He straightened and kissed the tip of her nose. “Although I have to ask—what are you planning to do with those nuts?”

“They’re part of the stuffing which is going in the poussin. I found the recipe in one of Old Nan’s cookbooks and thought it might work well for the roti course—with a few adjustments, of course.” She narrowed her eyes, her brows drawing together over her nose. “Why?”

He considered telling her he wasn’t particularly fond of chestnuts then decided one disagreement a day was enough. “Just curious.”

******************

“I still think I should have called for a car.” Sansa was whispering although Jon didn’t know why she felt the need—the only other car in the parking lot was hers and it was at least another hour before even Brienne, who believed being early was being on time and being on time was being late, would arrive to begin the work week. “People might start to think—.”

“People probably started thinking ‘that’ when we left Friday night and that’s only if they haven’t been thinking ‘that’ for the last couple of weeks.” Jon waited for her to settle her overnight bag on her shoulder before pulling her against him, easing the car door shut with his hip even as he eased her down into a kiss. Her heels gave her close to three inches on him and while he knew most men would be bothered at the height difference he found it more amusing than anything else. Besides, height wasn’t much of an issue when one or the other of them was flat on their backs. Drawing back, he whispered, “I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not ashamed of us. I hope you aren’t, either.”

“No, never, I just….” She trailed off but Jon already knew what she wasn’t saying.

“You don’t want the rest of the staff to think less of you for being involved with me.” Jon cupped her face, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. “I want you to take a moment and think about the people you have working for you and then ask yourself if you believe any of them are that type of person.”

“No, but it’s not just the staff here we have to be concerned about. Industry people talk, you know that, and if one of our people says something to somebody who works for the Lannisters or for this new restaurant group—.”

“Sansa, what do you think people are going to say? We’re both adults, neither of us are involved with other people, and there’s no way to suggest you’re showing undue favoritism as I had the position long before you took over management and my contract isn’t up for renegotiation for at least another two years.” He continued stroking her cheekbone, upset at the tightness of her jaw and the thin press of her lips. “If you want to have Davos or Sam draw up another document, one which lays out our relationship and separates it from the business, I’ll be happy to sign it.”

“And here gossip said that Jon Snow was a man who didn’t believe in vows.” The voice was quiet, smooth to the point of slickness, oiliness, and carried the faintest hint of menace. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon watched as a sliver of darkness broke away from the side of the building, resolving itself into a man not much taller than him, the sun throwing his long shadow on to the pavement in front of them. He came to a stop two armlengths’ away, his avuncular smile at odds with the calculating gleam in his eyes. “Sansa, darling, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“Jon, this is the former trustee for the estate, Petyr Baelish.” Most people wouldn’t have detected the slight tremor in her voice but Jon knew every inflection, every pitch, every tenor, and he knew she was holding herself together by the thinnest of threads. “Petyr, this is Winterfell’s head chef, Jon Snow.”

“Yes, I know.” Baelish beamed at them, seemingly harmless, although his gaze sharpened as it flitted from Jon’s hand on Sansa’s waist to her palm against his chest to his hand cupping her chin. “Ned always spoke so highly of you while Catelyn… well.” Baelish let the single word hang in the air, as if any of them needed to be reminded how the former matriarch of the Starks felt about Jon Snow. “I thought I would come down and have a little lunch.”

“We don’t serve lunch.” Sansa’s voice was stronger although still tight and as much as he hated to do it, Jon stepped away and back, allowing her to face Baelish on her own. “We have quite a bit of paperwork to tackle this morning so I’d appreciate if you stopped wasting our time and tell me why you’re really here.”

An expression which on any other person might have been considered hurt flitted across Baelish’s face, quickly replaced by a sorrow as false as it was obvious. He raised a hand, pressing it to his chest, his silver rings brilliant against the dark maroon of his suit jacket. “My dear girl, I simply wanted to come and see how you were doing. I haven’t heard a word from you since you came North and—.”

“You mean you haven’t heard from me since you finished with me and dropped me off at Bolton’s apartment so he could collect his… what did you call it? ‘Severance pay’?” Sansa didn’t raise her voice but Baelish still took a step back, as if suddenly afraid of the younger woman. “I can still feel it. I don’t mean, ‘in my tender heart, it still pains me so.’ I can still feel what he did, in my body, standing here, right now.” Baelish flinched and Jon watched Sansa smile, the curve of her lips as cool and sharp as the edge of a blade. “Too much for you, Petyr? Does it pain you to know I’m no longer pure, unscarred, the perfect replica of my mother—oh, don’t pretend innocence now, I know exactly why you demanded your own ‘severance pay’ in the form that you did.” She set her bag down, slipping off her sweater and passing it to Jon, the hatchmark of scars on her arms brilliant in the early morning light. “I am curious to know if you knew exactly what Bolton had in mind—either you didn’t know, which makes you an idiot, or you did, which makes you my enemy.”

When Baelish continued to stare, the color drained from his face, Jon growled, “Answer the question, Baelish.”

“No, don’t, because I’m almost certain I know the answer.” Sansa picked up her bag and stepped back, taking the sweater from Jon and draping it over her arm, her fingers icy cold when they brushed his skin. “Leave, Petyr, and don’t come back. I’ll consider you living with your guilt justice enough for your misdeeds.”

Baelish finally recovered, saying, “There’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it.”

“Well, in that case.” Jon closed the distance between them in a handful of strides, ramming his fist into the older man’s jaw, knocking him back a few steps only to grab his shirt collar, using it to hold him in place while he punched him again and again and again, the blood pounding in his veins and his ears, blocking out all other sound. Baelish’s face blurred, bleeding into Bolton’s, until it became a grotesque amalgam of the two and if someone had asked him who he was punishing, Baelish or Bolton, Jon wouldn’t have been able to give a definitive answer. He grunted, stumbled, when Baelish managed to land a fist to his gut, another to this face, the pain simply ramping up his need to obliterate the man. Dimly, as though from some great distance, he heard his name being shouted and then moments later at least two sets of hands began pulling at him, doing their best to separate him from Baelish.

“Jon.”

He jerked his head around, his gaze wheeling left and right before finally landing on Sansa, standing there so straight and still, her only sign of distress the tight clasping of her hands. Her face was pale, so pale, her pupils dilated so wide they blocked out all but a sliver of her bright blue iris. She swallowed once, the knot in her throat painfully obvious. “That’s enough. If you continue you’ll hurt your hands and we need you in the kitchen tonight.”

He nodded, letting Tormund and Brienne—with the haze of adrenaline clearing, he was able to recognize who had attempted to intervene—pulling him up and away before shaking them off, turning and stalking back to Sansa. Even as the small part of him which could still be considered sane told him to stop being stupid and reckless, the larger part of him, the part still ruled by fury and bloodlust screamed for him to take, to show his strength, to claim his woman. So he didn’t blame Sansa for gasping when he grabbed her, yanked her against him, and took her mouth in a kiss so possessive it bordered on violent, growling low in his throat when she trembled and pressed closer, her entire body seeming to go limp and pliant as he pillaged her mouth. Drawing back, the air shuddering in and out of his lungs, he rasped out, “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

“You’re mine. And I’m yours.” She lifted a hand, her fingertips hovering over a cut above his left eye which was beginning to throb. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

“Ms. Stark.” Brienne sounded calm, collected, and when Jon turned to look at her he saw she appeared exactly the same, as if she hadn’t arrived to work early just in time to break up a fistfight. “What would you like us to do with this… individual?”

“We’re only an hour or so from the coast.” Tormund nudged Baelish with one booted foot, grunting when the other man simply lolled to one side, clearly unconscious. “People go walking on the cliffs, put a foot wrong, take a tumble… if the rocks don’t do them in, the sea will finish the job.”

“No.” Sansa shook her head, seemingly ignoring the looks of disappointment on both Tormund and Brienne’s faces. “No. I won’t have his blood on our hands.” She paused, glancing down at Jon’s fist, lips curving in a smirk before she continued. “Well, at least no more than there already is.”

“Right then. I’ve got a friend who makes money on the side as a driver. I’ll ring him up, have him come round for this garbage here, and send him on his way.” Tormund pulled his phone from his pocket, winking at Jon before angling his body toward Brienne. “You’ll stay here and help me keep an eye on him, yeah, while the Queen stitches up the little crow?”

“Come on.” Sansa tugged on Jon’s arm, shifting until they were standing hip to hip. “Lean on me if you start to feel dizzy.”

“I’m fine.” Although, now that the adrenaline was draining away, the aches and pains where Baelish had managed to land a handful of blows were starting to make themselves known. He managed to make it up the stairs and inside before sagging against her just a bit, his knees wobbling slightly. “I should tell you now, if you’re after an apology for beatin’ the shit out the slimy focker, you’ll be waitin’ ‘til dragons fly again.”

“Your accent really shines through when you’re angry, doesn’t it?” She led him through the silent dining room and down the back hallway, leaning him against the wall long enough to dig her keys from her bag and unlock her office door. “I don’t expect an apology, Jon. You did every thing I’ve wanted to do but was too scared and too weak to do.”

“Not weak.” He tumbled on to the sofa, biting back a groan as the motion jarred every bone and muscle in his body. He grunted again when she lifted his head enough to tuck a pillow under it, grabbing her hand and bringing it up, brushing her knuckles with his swollen lips. “Skin of porcelain, spine of ivory, will of steel. Queen of Winterfell. Queen in the North.”

“You’re delirious.” She leaned closer, using her free hand to pry his eyelids open, both of them pretending her hand wasn’t shaking. “I wonder if we should call a doctor. You might have a concussion. And some of these cuts look as if they’ll need stitches.”

“I’m fine. Just need some ice. Maybe a nap.”

“I’ll go get some ice, for your knuckles and your face.” She straightened, frowning down at him. “We’ll talk about a nap in an hour or so, when I’m more certain you don’t have a concussion.”

“As you wish.” He waited until she left, giving him a final, suspicious look, before digging his phone out of the pocket of chef pants. It had, miraculously, managed to survive the small fight without a scratch or a crack and he tapped the screen a few times, shifting the call to speakerphone once it connected and hoping Sansa wouldn’t return before he was finished. After the fifth ring, he began to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to send a text and he started to shift his thumb to the END CALL icon only to jump when a voice snarled out, “What the fuck do you want?”

“Morning, Arya, lovely to speak wit' you.”

A deep, masculine chuckle which definitely didn’t belong to his younger cousin echoed in the background, followed a moment later by an exaggerated sigh. “Good morning, Jon. It’s lovely to speak with you, also. What the fuck do you want?”

“You need to come home for a while.” Ignoring her curses, he continued, forcing himself to speak clearly even though his head was starting to pound. “I know it isn’t your greatest priority and I know you might not think so but Winterfell needs you. Your sister needs you.”

Arya snorted and in the background came that deep, masculine voice again, this time telling Arya to not be such a brat. Arya shot back an order for him—Gendry, apparently—to mind his own business before turning her attention back to the phone. “Sansa doesn’t need anyone.”

“Arya.” He broke off, not wanting to share Sansa’s secret but determined to convince his younger cousin to sail home. “She needs you.”

There must have been something in his voice, some shift in tone, some change in cadence, because Arya snapped out, “What happened? Is she hurt?”

“She needs you.” He heard the dull thud of Sansa’s heels as she hurried back down the hall and knew he had maybe five seconds. “Hurry.” Ending the call, he took a moment to erase it from his call history—even though he absolutely trusted Sansa to not look through his phone without permission—before tossing it on the coffee table. A second later, Sansa rushed in, a bag of ice in each hand. “Still awake.”

“So I see.” She perched on the edge of the sofa next to his hip, placing one of the bags on his face as gently as a parent might lay a baby in their crib. Taking his hand, she examined the knuckles, swollen and cut, before lifting it and pressing a kiss to each cut, blood smeared on her lips when she drew back, cradling his hand in hers, laying the other bag of ice on his knuckles. “I should tell you, for form’s sake, you’re an absolute idiot.”

“I wouldn’t’ve killed him unless you asked me.” Even though moving made his entire body ache, he lifted his uninjured arm, wiping the blood from her lips with a lazy swipe of his fingers, sinking back against the sofa with a sigh, letting his eyes close. “Give a kiss, love, and let a man sleep.”

“I told you, you shouldn’t sleep if you have a concussion.” Still, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, soft, innocent, almost chaste. Even with his eyes closed, he felt the weight of her stare on his face. When she spoke again, it was a low murmur, more to herself than him. “What am I supposed to do with you, Jon Snow?”

“Whatever you want, love.” It took some maneuvering and by the time he had what he wanted, her stretched out next to him, her head on his shoulder, his entire body ached, but it was worth it to hold her. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. From this day till the end of my days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional note: the roti course is, literally, the roast course, which usually involves roasted poultry of some sort served with a small salad on the side. Poussin is the French term for a small, young hen, otherwise known as a spring chicken, and while it's not common for this dish to be served stuffed in modern/real world dining, in our fictional world it's been stuffed with chestnuts, prunes, carrots, and herbs.


	15. Legume--Rumdlethumps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family reunions and plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days? What is this madness? I don't know, friends, but it has to be better than the apocalypse.
> 
> Still no smut because we've other things to focus on but I promise, it will make a return soon.
> 
> You may have noticed the tags have changed. I decided to bring Bran into the story and where Bran goes Meera goes because unlike some individuals (who will remain nameless but come on--we know who they are) I believe in giving characters personality and agency and believable story lines, damn it, which is also why we're not having even the slightest hint of Winterhell because fuck that noise.
> 
> For those interested, the legume course focuses on vegetables and rumbledethumps is a traditional Scottish dish comprised of shredded cabbage and onions and mashed potatoes, baked and topped with cheese. It's a bit of a hodgepodge of ingredients but taken as a whole it's a strong dish--much like our Starks and friends.
> 
> As always, my appreciation for your continued support in all its forms--and happy reading.

The next morning, Sansa unlocked her office door, cursing under her breath when she dropped her keys, staring at them for a moment before simply opening the door and kicking them in ahead of her. She had her purse and overnight bag in one hand and a tray of to-go coffees from the small café down the street in the other; if she tried to pick the keys up, there was a good chance she would lose at least one of the seven items in her hands and she didn’t have time for any disasters this morning.

She’d used up her quota for disasters yesterday morning.

She’d spent the rest of the day and the entire evening waiting for a phone call from the police—or worse, from Baelish himself, offering a trade to keep from going to the industry gossips with this latest scandal. The only reason she’d had any sleep at all was because Jon had insisted she take a sleeping pill and then a long bubble bath before bringing her to a series of orgasms with his tongue and fingers. The combination of the three activities had dropped her into a sleep so deep she’d actually missed her first two alarms, waking only when Jon started cursing and threatening to throw her clock against a wall.

She smiled at the memory—and his version of a wake-up call—as she set the tray of coffees on her desk, stowing her purse and overnight bag in the small closet. She shut the door and turned back toward her desk. And screamed.

“Christ, Sans.” Arya slapped her hands over her ears and screwed up her face, her lips twisting in a grimace. “You could cut glass at that pitch.”

Sansa slapped a hand over her heart, certain it had, despite being anatomically impossible, jumped out of her chest. “You scared the _fuck_ out of me. Don’t _do_ that.”

Arya dropped her hands, her features shifting into a scowl. “I’m just standing here.”

“Don’t sneak up on people like that.” Sansa spun on her heels, yanking open the closet door and fumbling through her purse, her hands trembling as she searched for her anti-anxiety pills. Closing her sweaty fingers around the small bottle, she jerked it out, nearly dropping it before she was able to wrestle the lid free. Shaking out two pills, she capped the bottle and returned it to her purse, kicking the door shut before turning and grabbing the nearest cup of coffee, ignoring the burning of her tongue as she swallowed the pills. Straightening, she brushed out an imaginary wrinkle in her dress before clasping her hands together at her waist, curving her lips in what she hoped looked like a casual smile. “Sorry. You really did scare me. Although I suppose I should be used to that since you did the same thing when we were kids. Do you remember when you and Robb hid in the—.”

“Stop.” Arya crossed her arms, her dark gaze flitting over Sansa’s face, far too piercing for Sansa’s peace of mind. “Yeah, Robb and I were always trying to scare you and sometimes we even succeeded but we never made you scream as if you were being murdered.” She nodded at Sansa’s hands. “And we never scared you into what looks like a panic attack, if those pills you just took and those white knuckles of yours are any indication of your current mood.”

“Just because you graduated with a psychology degree doesn’t mean you get to attempt to psychoanalyze people.”

“Uh, I graduated with honors, thank you, and that’s exactly the point of a psychology degree but even if I didn’t have a fancy diploma I’d be able to look at you and tell something was wrong because you’re my sister.” Arya continued to study her, chewing on her overly full lower lip, tapping one sandaled foot, the aqua blue toenails shockingly bright against her deep tan. The toenails matched the streaks in her nut-brown hair, contrasting with the lemon-yellow polish decorating her fingernails. After a moment, she sighed and shook her head. “Sorry, Sans.”

Before Sansa could ask why she was apologizing, Arya closed the distance between them, grabbing Sansa’s right arm and shoving her sleeve up, revealing the scars on her forearm. For one long, tense minute, the only sound in the room was Sansa’s ragged breathing. And then Arya clucked her tongue and said, “Right.” Dropping Sansa’s arm, she stepped back, bellowing out, “Gendry!”

A head popped around the doorframe, dark hair cropped close around a face as tan as Arya’s, his dark blue eyes showing the most mild of curiosity. “You rang, my lady?”

“I’ve told you not to call me that.” There was no heat to the rebuke, as if it was offered more for form than anything else, and Sansa watched as her sister rolled her eyes when Gendry stepped into the room, bowing first to Sansa and then to Arya. “And I told you to stop bowing. You look like an idiot.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“Idiot.” There was too much warmth in the single word for anyone to believe it an insult and Arya gave him a half smile, one which quickly faded when she glanced at Sansa’s still bare arm. “I need your help with something.”

Gendry followed her gaze, his playful smile flattening into thin lips, his cheekbones standing out in stunning relief when he clenched his jaw. “Aye. So. Who are we killing, then? And don’t tell me we’re dropping the body at sea, not unless you’ve got another boat stowed away somewhere that we can burn after using.”

“Nobody is killing anybody or disposing of any bodies.” When they both simply continued to stare at her, clearly expecting her to give them a name, she shoved her sleeve back into place, resisting the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. “I mean it.”

“I think we should put it to a family vote.” Arya crossed the room, leaning out into the hall and shouting, “Hey, you two! Family vote!”

“Two?” Sansa collapsed in the nearest chair and kicked off her heels, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “What, did you somehow manage to pull Uncle Benjen out of whatever hole in the wall he crawled in to?”

“Not quite.” His voice was deeper, bland to the point of sardonic, as if he was doing his best to erase his personality but hadn’t managed to do so yet. “Lovely to see you again, Sansa.”

“Bran?” She straightened, opening her eyes and swiveling in her chair, not quite able to believe he was really there. And yet he was, looking fit and healthy and happy, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, the other clasped in the hand of a woman around Arya’s age, her hair as wild and curly as Bran’s was straight. “I thought you were at… honestly, I don’t know where you were supposed to be.”

“As Arya reminded me, I was supposed to be here.” Bran shot Arya a look and she shrugged. “We _both_ were supposed to be here and instead we left everything to you.”

Sansa frowned. “Neither of you really cared about the restaurant.”

“Like running it? No.” Arya snorted. “No, that was always you and Robb.” They all feel silent for a minute at the mention of their lost brother and Sansa shifted her gaze to the overhead light, blinking rapidly in an effort to keep the tears at bay. After a moment, Arya cleared her throat and said, “Still, we’re as much Tully as you are—even if we don’t look it—and you know the Tully family motto.”

“Family. Duty. Honor.” The last word faded away and Sansa glanced over to find Jon leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. When she caught his gaze, he shrugged. “Heard it off enough hanging around you lot.”

“I’m sorry, I’m having difficulty wrapping my mind around… well, everything.” Sansa started unpinning her hair, even though she knew it would have very little effect on the low-level headache forming at the base of her skull. When Jon pushed off the doorframe and eased his way around Bran’s chair, crossing the room to stand behind her, she gave a passing thought to waving him away but then he began to work at the knots in her shoulders and she decided she didn’t give a damn what her siblings thought. “One of you showing up here would be strange enough. Both of you showing up at the same time… this feel suspiciously like a trap. Or an intervention.”

“An intervention for what? Being addicted to color-coded folders?” Arya shot a glare at Gendry when he snorted out a laugh. “It’s not funny. You mess up her organization and she’ll spend an hour bitching about it and then another hour bitching while she fixes it.” Turning back to Sansa, she said, “I told you, Bran and I realized we should be here, helping you.” She frowned. “Maybe if we had been, well.”

“Well what?” It was Bran’s turn to frown, his gaze flitting from Arya to Sansa and back. “Why were you yelling about a family vote?” The woman next to Bran gave a not-too-delicate cough and Bran glanced up at her, his frown softening. “Right. Sorry. Sansa, this is Meera.”

Meera smiled. “His fiancé.” When Bran sighed, Meera added, “Once he gets used to the idea, anyway.”

“No, no, you can’t give him too much time to think about things or he’ll start thinking up excuses. You have to dazzle him, confuse him, and then when he’s all bewildered, _that’s_ when you get him.” Gendry nodded, slinging an arm around Arya’s shoulders, ignoring the elbow she dug into his side. “That’s how I convinced Arya to marry me.”

“Which is his romantic way of saying he got me drunk and screwed my brains out and then had me in front of a justice of the peace before I realized what was happening.” Arya elbowed him again, scowling up at him. “I could still divorce you, you know.”

“Yeah.” Gendry leaned down, nearly folding himself in half, and kissed her as if she was the most delicate of glass. Drawing back, he whispered, “But you won’t.”

Arya’s answering smile was sweet, almost girlish, as was the dull flush of color sweeping over her cheeks. “Probably not. Good deckhands are hard to find.” Then the moment passed and she was once again her brash, over-the-top self. “Anyway, to answer Bran’s question—.”

“You’re married?” Sansa shifted her attention from her sister to her brother. “And you’re engaged?” When they both simply stared, she threw her hands up. “And neither of you thought to, maybe, I don’t know, call? Text? Send a fucking email, maybe?”

“To be fair, we just got married yesterday on our way here.” Gendry, who was either the world’s cleverest man or simply had no instinct at all for self-preservation, hugged Arya tighter against him. “We scooped up Bran and Meera, got married, had a preview of our honeymoon, and sailed in this morning.”

“Where are your headache pills?” Jon used his thumbs to work at the knot in her nape and while Sansa wanted to bless him for doing his best it simply wasn’t enough in the face of the morning’s bombshells. “Sansa?”

“I just took two pills for anxiety, I can’t take anything else for a few hours.” Sighing, she leaned further into his hands, giving a murmur of thanks when he shifted his attention to her temples, massaging in small circles. “That’s better than any drugs could be right now, honestly.”

Arya made an ‘ah-ha’ sound and gestured toward Sansa. “And that’s why we’re taking a vote on whether or not we’re going to kill someone.”

Sansa frowned. “Because I took anti-anxiety pills?”

“Because you took anti-anxiety pills and you nearly had a panic attack when I surprised you and you make sure you can see all the doors, even the ones for the closet and the bathroom, and you look as if you’ve lost weight when you were already too thin and you have scars all over your arm that look like they’re from a knife but not by your own hand.” Arya’s voice broke and Sansa straightened, pulling away from Jon’s hands, intent on going to her sister only to be shocked into inaction when Arya broke away from Gendry, all but flinging herself into Sansa’s arms and lap. It was always a shock how small she was, barely bigger than she’d been at ten or twelve, her personality more than making up for her lack of height. “Somebody hurt you. They’re still hurting you. And you think you have to handle it on your own but you don’t.”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” Bran’s voice cracked and he paused, clearing his throat before speaking again. “That’s what Father always said. And we might have lost some members of our pack but not all of them. We’re still the Starks of Winterfell.”

“Sansa.” Jon squeezed her shoulder. “You need to tell them. They need to know.”

She sighed. Closed her eyes. “When Mother and Father died, the estate—including the restaurant—was placed under the supervision of a trustee.”

Slowly, haltingly, she told them about Baelish. About Bolton. About Baelish’s appearance yesterday and Jon’s reaction. When she faltered, her breath hitching in her lungs, Jon took her hand and simply held it, his presence a soothing balm. After she finished, the room was quiet for long, long minutes. Finally, Arya mumbled something against her shoulder, her voice thick with tears.

“Babe.” Only now did Gendry move over to them, plucking Arya out of Sansa’s lap as if she weighed nothing. “Nobody heard a word you said.”

Arya sniffled, dragging her hand across her face, smearing snot and tears. “I said, I’m going to find both of those fuckers and rip their cocks off and feed them to a shark.”

“Please say I can help.” Meera’s smile was sharp-edged and feral. “Please.”

“As much as I would love to watch while you ladies did just that, I’m afraid it’s not only impractical but slightly illegal.” When Sansa whipped her head toward him, Jon sighed. “Okay, it’s very illegal. Which is really the only reason I can’t condone your plan because as much as we would all like to see those two fuckers dead, they’re also not worth going to jail.”

“I’m sure between the four of us we could come up with a fool-proof plan.” Bran shrugged. “Leave the two of you out of it so you have plausible deniability.”

“Or—and hear me out—we ruin both of their reputations and ensure neither of them ever work in the industry again and maybe, just maybe, see some justice served for their crimes.” Jon brushed his hand over Sansa’s hair, absent-mindedly tucking a section behind her ear, seemingly unaware of the measuring looks from his other cousins. “Bran, I know you’ve been off trying to become one with nature but you haven’t forgotten your way around a computer, have you?”

“I’m probably a little rusty.” Bran flexed the fingers of his free hand. “Nothing a little practice wouldn’t fix.”

“And Arya, I know for a fact you still have all your wigs and prosthetics and stage makeup from your community theatre days.”

“So that’s why you have all that stuff.” Gendry snapped his fingers, nearly dropping Arya in the process. “I just assumed, well….”

“I’m sure there’s a few costumes in my cache which can be repurposed for… private entertainment.” Arya fluttered her lashes at him, laughing and wiggling out of his arms and to her feet as he flushed and stammered a half-hearted denial. “Yeah, Jon, I’ve got my theatre things.”

“Bolton is working for the Lannisters now.” Sansa stood, brushing her hands over the skirt of her dress only to have her work undone when Jon wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her against him. “I had Brienne put out feelers last week. She just heard back yesterday.”

“While normally the enemy of my enemy is my friend and what have you, this time… well, I have no issue with taking down the Lannisters as well.” Jon pressed a kiss to Sansa’s temple. “The North remembers.” He shifted his attention back to Bran. “What do you know about the new restaurant group trying to stake a claim in the area? Blood and Fire?”

Bran grinned, suddenly looking so much like Rickon, and Sansa had to resist the urge to press a hand to her chest at the surge of memories. “Not as much as I’ll know in a few days. How deep do you want me to dig?”

“Keep it legal—for now.” He glanced at the clock and grunted. “I need a moment alone with Sansa. Arya, Gendry, Hot Pie should be here to start the day’s baking in a few minutes if you want to go hang out in the kitchen and wait for him.”

“Hot Pie bread—almost better than sex.” Gendry winced when Arya pinched him. “Hey, I said ‘almost’, didn’t I?”

“We’ll go along, mooch some breakfast before we get started on research.” Bran started backing out of the room, Meera moving behind him. “Show Meera the kingdom, so to speak.”

Sansa waited until Arya slipped out, closing the door behind her, before speaking again. “You called them.”

“Only Arya. I didn’t know she was going to call Bran but I’m not mad she did.” He turned to face her, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, studying her face. “You should have called them home before now.”

“As long as they weren’t here, they were safe.” She was so tired, to the point where her bones ached, and all she wanted to do was sleep. “And now they’re not.”

“Do you believe, truly believe, that any of them—Bolton, Baelish, the Lannisters—are stupid enough to take on all the Starks at one time?” He gave her a little squeeze. “And then you add in Gendry, who looks as if he benchpresses cows and Meera, who would probably smile while she gutted you… anybody who takes us on at this point isn’t simply stupid, they’re suicidal.” When she only continued to stare at him, too tired even to frown, he sat, pulling her down into his lap and cuddling her against him. “You’re not alone, Sansa. You’ll never have to be alone again.”

“Because I’m yours.” She pressed her cheek to his. “And you’re mine.”

“Aye.” He kissed her jaw. “From this day till the end of my days.” He drew back only to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Maybe one day, you’ll believe me when I say it.”


	16. Salad—Kale and Radish Salad with Chestnuts and Dunlop Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A questioning of intentions and a shift in dynamics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, friends. As the apocalypse continues to fuck us all over, feel free to indulge in some good, ol'fashioned fanfic. It's the perfect balm for the soul. On a serious note, I hope everybody is being as safe as possible and is taking care not only of their physical health but their mental health.
> 
> Have we returned to smut? Not entirely. There's the tiniest, tiniest hint of it but it's really more of a lead-in for the next chapter. This one was already sitting at about 3K and if we went full smut it would have been double that and it's very late at night where I am and I simply don't have it in me to write 3K of smut right now. Maybe tomorrow. Probably. Most likely.
> 
> The salad course--man, I can't tell you how much I wanted to make a sexual joke about salads but I resisted because I am an adult and a fucking lady. Anyway, I have no idea if this salad is a real one or not but it seemed as if could be so it's going on the Restaurant Week Menu.
> 
> As always, my thanks for your support--I really enjoyed seeing all the responses to the last chapter, especially the Stark interactions and the inclusion of Gendry and Meera into the pack. I do feel both of them would be very much on board with the whole, "fuck anyone who isn't us and kill anyone who fucks with us" mentality of the Starks, Meera especially, and we stan female characters who aren't petty assholes to other female characters just because they're female.
> 
> Happy reading, folks!

“You do this _every_ night?”

Jon didn’t look away from the entrée Tormund was plating, one part of his mind focused on the presentation, another wondering where the hell the appetizer was for table 43, a third debating whether he needed to pull Ed from the leguimier station and have him take over the potager station from Pyp, who was doing his best to keep up with demand but not quite succeeding, and a fourth wondering what Sansa was doing. He was used to juggling the first three in some way or another—after all, that was the job and he could say, with no bravado, that he was very, very good at his job. He was still adjusting to the fourth train of thought but it was less distracting now than it had been five weeks earlier when she’d first come home to Winterfell.

He assumed, in time, it would be as natural as breathing.

“Jon.” Arya snapped her fingers in front of his nose and he shot her a quick frown. “You know if you answer me I’m much more likely to go away.”

“And we both know that’s a lie but good on you for being able to tell it with a straight face.” He gave Tormund a nod, turning away as the other man moved the entrée to the hot window and called for a food runner. “Aren’t you supposed to be out front with your sister, smiling and waving and showing a united front?”

“She told me to come back to the kitchen until I was able to smile without the expression resembling a grimace.” Arya shifted out of the way as one of the pot boys—they were all boys, regardless of age or gender—hustled past with a stack of clean sauce pans, her lips twitching in a smirk. “Which is fine because I wanted to check on Gendry.”

“He’s in the dishpit, polishing silverware—don’t go in there and distract him.”

“Me?” Arya widened her eyes, pressing one hand to her chest. Sansa hadn’t said a word about the fingernail polish but when Arya had shown up in a crop top and hip-hugger ripped jeans an hour before the first set of covers was due to begin arriving, Sansa had pulled out her phone and made a call to someone named Ros and within forty-five minutes a trio of dresses and matching shoes had been delivered. Arya had complained for all of five minutes before grabbing them and rushing off to Sansa’s office, emerging five minutes later in a backless black halter dress with gold accents and black and gold stilettos. If Jon hadn’t hauled Gendry off to the dishpit, there was a good chance the younger man would have dragged his cousin to the nearest alcove. “Why on earth would you think I would distract him?”

Tormund snorted but continued plating the next set of entrées. “The only reason you’re not causing a riot right now is because they all know you’re married and they’ve all seen your husband. Looks as if he could play professional football.”

“He used to play for his high school.” Arya smiled. “His nickname was the Hammer.”

“Yeah, and we all know what he’s nailing these days.” Jon sighed, and rubbing his temple as everyone within ear shot burst into laughter. “Sorry, Arya, kitchen humor.”

“I promise you, it doesn’t even come close to sailor humor.” She started to hitch herself up on a counter, rolling her eyes when Jon snapped his fingers at her. “Ugh, like a health inspector is going to show up at this time of night.”

“And do you ignore the laws of the sea simply because a safety inspector isn’t looking over your shoulder?”

“Fine, fine, fine.” Arya rolled her eyes again, contenting herself with simply leaning against the counter. “Anyway, you never answered the question. Do you guys do this every night?”

“Clarify for me, Arya. Are we open every night? No, we’re closed Sunday and Monday, like most of the fine dining in the area. Are we this busy every night? No, usually we’re slower Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and do the bulk of our business on Friday and Saturday.” Jon gestured at Pyp and Ed, silently telling them to switch stations. Pyp was doing well but they were busier than normal for a Tuesday and if he continued falling behind it would start to affect cook times as a whole. “I guess everybody heard you and Bran were doing a guest appearance and decided they didn’t have anything better to do tonight than come in and gawk at you.”

“Which is why I’ve been making faces and why Sansa sent me back here.” She looked longingly at a plate of petit fours as it left the pâtissier station but didn’t try and grab one, something Jon was thankful for since he didn’t relish the idea of slapping his cousin’s hand as if she was five. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you.”

“In the middle of the second round of covers is not the best time for conversation.” Jon frowned at the quartet of salads being garnished and trayed, making a mental note to check with the produce supplier about the quality of the leafy greens being delivered. “Sansa and I usually spend an hour or so after close going over the evening’s shift so—.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Sansa.” She crossed her arms, pursing her lips, her dark, heavy brows drawing close together. Jon was struck again at the contrast between her soft, almost youthful features—the rounded chin, the full cheeks, the snub nose—and the elegant makeup, the sleek hair, the sophisticated dress. She should have looked like a little girl playing dress-up but instead she looked exactly like what she was—a princess of Winterfell. A more modern, edgy princess, but a princess nonetheless. “How long have you and my sister been sleeping together?”

Jon blinked and turned his attention back to Tormund, who should have been plating a trio of roasted duck breast entrées but was instead listening to his conversation with Arya. “Tormund. You know the duck is time and temperature sensitive.”

“Aye, I do, but I can’t very well plate it without the duck, can I?” He nodded toward the rotisseur station, where Gren was working methodically through the line of tickets on the wheel. “Got another minute before it’s ready for me. More than enough time for you to answer Little Bit’s question.”

“Yeah, Jon, answer the question.” Arya smirked at him. “And don’t say you’re not because I’ll know you’re lying.”

“A psychology degree doesn’t mean you automatically know when people are lying.”

“No, but it definitely helps.”

“My relationship with Sansa is just that—mine. It doesn’t involve you.” Jon bit out the words, not sure who he was more annoyed with—Arya, for blindsiding him with the question, Tormund, for pressing him to answer it, or himself for caving to the pressure. “Now, again, we’re unusually busy for a Tuesday evening so if you don’t mind—.”

“Your relationship with Sansa _does_ involve me because she’s my sister.” Arya stepped forward, lowering her voice, her words carrying no further than his ears. “She thinks I don’t know what happened down South with Joffery, with Tyrion and Shae, but I do, just like I knew about that tool she dated in high school, Harry Hardyng, and how he broke up with her because she wouldn’t go to Dorne with him for the summer because she was working here.” Arya took a deep breath and moved even closer, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. “She’s my sister, even when we’re fighting over stupid things like clothes, and I don’t like seeing her hurt.”

“If anybody is going to get hurt in this relationship, it’s going to be me.” He dragged a hand through his hair before scrubbing his palms over his face. “It’s complicated, okay, for all the reasons you just listed and for the ones you’re thinking but aren’t saying.”

“I still think we should have cut their cocks off and fed them to some sharks but I accept the fact I was outvoted.” If the set of her jaw was any indication she wasn’t accepting it with grace but that wasn’t necessarily a requirement. She narrowed her eyes. “And why would you be the one getting hurt?”

“Arya.” Sansa’s voice rang out from across the room and the noise level in the kitchen, which had been mid-level at best, fell to just above a murmur. Like her sister, she wore black and gold although her dress was high-necked and long-sleeved, hugging her frame from her shoulders to her knees. Her hair was drawn back in a simple ponytail, her face seemingly bare of all makeup with the exception of lipstick as red as her hair. “There’s a Lyanna Mormont in the dining room. She says the two of you went to school together.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember Lyanna.” Arya stared at Sansa for a moment. “I suppose you want me to go out and play the celebutante?”

“I know how much it pains you but I would appreciate it. Why don’t you collect Gendry from the dishpit, make another round of the tables, and then call it a night?” Sansa’s smile warmed a few degrees but it was still more professional than familial. “Bran and Meera already claimed the spare bedroom so you’re going to have to settle for the pullout. Just… try and wait until I’m home and in my room before continuing with your honeymoon.”

“You’re not staying with Jon?” Arya widened her eyes, glancing from Jon to Sansa and back again, and Jon braced himself for whatever mischief—or matchmaking—his cousin was about to induce. “I mean, I just assumed….” She trailed off, rolling her eyes and flipping her hair. “God, please don’t tell me you’re going to go all prim and proper because Bran and I are here. If you knew the things Gendry and I have—.”

“I’d rather not discuss your sex life—or Bran’s, for that matter.” Sansa flicked a glance at Jon but he held his tongue, determined not to get involved in this little war. “We’ll discuss sleeping arrangements later, Arya. Take your husband and go smile and wave for the guests.”

“If you insist.” Arya gave Jon one last measuring look before stalking out of the kitchen, pausing long enough to give Sansa a quick, hard hug before slapping open the swinging door and turning toward the dishpit.

“I just wanted to let you know we’ve sat the last table for the evening.” Sansa smoothed her hands over her dress, her gaze darting around the kitchen, and Jon sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his staff was far too well trained to show even the smallest hint of curiosity about the scene which had played out in front of them. “All things being equal, you should be able to close down within the next ninety minutes.”

“We’ll get started on the cleanup and breakdown as soon as we have the order.” Jon hesitated for a moment before crossing over to her, pulling her into the quietest corner of the kitchen although it was still in full view of the staff. Angling his body toward hers, he lowered his voice and said, “I had no idea she was going to do that.”

“It’s Arya.” Sansa laughed under her breath. “When is she ever not stirring up trouble?”

“True, but I’d hoped with age would have come some sense of discretion.” He moved closer, careful not to touch her even though part of him wanted to just that and appearances be damned. “If you want to stay at your apartment with your brother and sister, I don’t mind. It’s okay.”

“Getting tired of me?” She might have asked the question in a light, almost flirtatious tone of voice but there was a wariness to her gaze, as if she expected him to answer in the affirmative.

“No.” _Never._ Now he did touch her, taking her hand, shifting closer until their torsos were almost brushing. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay with me just because… because of our relationship. I know you haven’t seen your family in a while and—.”

“They’re going to be here for… well, there’s no telling how long, is there, so I’ll be able to spend plenty of time with them, especially since they’re all going to help out with the restaurant while they’re here.” Sansa took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling. “I like staying with you, staying in your apartment.”

“And I like having you stay with me.” He reached up, brushing back a flyaway of baby fine hair. “So why don’t you pack a bag for a few days, pack whatever you need, and you can stay with me and Arya and Gendry and Bran and Meera can stay in your apartment.”

“Okay.” She smiled, the stiffness in her frame melting away as she leaned into him and he closed his eyes, breathing in her lemony perfume, opening them again as she straightened and pulled away slightly. “Let me say, I really, really was not looking forward to walking in on Arya and Gendry on the sofa.”

“Understandable.” _Seven hells take it._ He cupped her face, swallowing her small gasp of surprise with his mouth in a quick, almost matter of fact kiss, as if it was something they did at the back half of every Tuesday night shift. Stepping back, he said, “I’ll come find you when we’re finished in here.”

“Uh, yes.” Sansa blinked once, twice, before moving toward the doors, glancing at him over her shoulder before slipping out of the kitchen.

Jon gave his staff—especially Tormund, who wasn’t known for his subtlety—credit. They waited a good two minutes before breaking into applause and whistles, Pyp and Ed drumming their hands on the counters while Grenn banged a set of tongs on the metal flattop. He let them continue for a moment before letting out a shrill whistle of his own. “That’s enough, folks! Let’s finish out these orders and get ready to break things down!”

“I knew it!” Tormund rounded the low metal counter, scooping Jon up in a crushing embrace and spinning him in a quick circle before setting him down, giving him a trio of slaps on the shoulder. “I knew you’d bent the knee to the Queen, little crow.”

“Plate the pork loin, Tormund.” Jon waited until the other man turned away before finally allowing himself to smile.

**********

“I specifically told Arya to wait until I’d packed a bag before… well, before.” Sansa shook her head, dropping on to the opposite end of the sofa and swinging her feet up to rest on Jon’s knee. She’d taken off her makeup and let her hair free from its tie, trading her dress and heels for one of his old t-shirts, the hem barely reaching the top of her thighs, providing him with teasing glimpses of lacy black underwear. “I’m not sure who screamed louder, me or Gendry.”

“Gendry, for sure.” Jon stroked his hand up one of her calves, passing her the glass of Dornish wine he’d poured while waiting for her to change. “Although Meera would be a close second when she came running in to find out why everybody was screaming.”

“And of course Arya is just laughing her head off and Bran is yelling for somebody to tell him what the fuck is happening and you.” Sansa gave him a playful kick before taking a long sip of wine. “You’re just standing there with your hands slapped over your eyes, swearing up and down you didn’t see anything, you didn’t want to see anything, and then you tried to back out of the room and tripped over your own feet and nearly knocked yourself unconscious.”

“Say what you want but I don’t know a single women who would be happy if the person they were sleeping with saw their sister naked, even if it was accidental.” Jon took the wine back and chugged half the contents, huffing out a deep, pained breath. “And Gendry looks harmless but I’m pretty sure he could break me in half if he felt the urge and me seeing his wife naked might give him that urge.”

“Doubtful.” Sansa laughed and shook her head. “I will never get the image of that huge man trying to cover himself with one of my throw pillows out of my mind.”

“Oh, really?” Jon leaned forward and set the wine glass on the coffee table, grabbing her wrists and pulling her over until she was straddling his lap. “Never?”

“Well, maybe with the proper motivation.” She laughed again as he pulled her shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him. She shook out her hair, the fiery strands cascading over her shoulders and breasts as she leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the sofa to either side of his head. “Maybe… maybe we can try it like this?”

“Ah. Does Daddy’s good girl want to be on top tonight?” He cupped her breasts, flicking his thumbs over her nipples until they hardened, shifting until he was able to suck one stiff peak into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the pebbled flesh. He released her nipple with a soft pop of sound, glancing up at her. “Sansa?”

“I want to try it but I still want….” She trailed off, worrying her lower lip. “I still want you to be in control.”

“Baby.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “I promise, I can still dominate you even when you’re on top.” He stroked his hands down her torso and over her thighs, slipping the fingers of one hand under the edge of her panties, his other palm pressed to the small of her back. “Do you want me to show you how?”

She let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”


	17. Froid--Scotch Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late night games.
> 
> (Warning--explicit sexual content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, lovely readers-the smut that was promised. That's it. It's just a chapter of smut. I wouldn't call it filth, just good old fashioned smut. But smut nonetheless.
> 
> I am reading and loving all of your comments on the addition of the other Starklings and their respective partners. Rest assured, we'll be seeing more of them just not, you know, in a smutty sense.
> 
> Enjoy, dear readers!

“First, I need you to go look in the top drawer of my bedside table and get the rope.” Jon gave her ass a light swat, tipping her off his lap. “And you might as well strip off that lovely underwear.” He snapped the waistband, his lips curving in the tiniest of smiles when she yelped. “I’d hate to see all that pretty lace in tatters on the floor.”

“O—oh.” Sansa gulped, the faintest flush staining her cheeks, spreading down her torso and over her breasts. She clasped her hands together directly over her cunt, as if shielding herself, one knee turned inward, her toes curling delicately against the wooden floor. If Jon were to take a photo and frame it, he would title it Not So Innocent Schoolgirl. “Can you… I mean have you….”

“Once or twice, accidently.” Leaning forward, he brushed her hands away, cupping her cunt in his palm and rubbing gently, not surprised to find the fabric damp. “But doing so leaves marks and the only marks I want to see on you are the ones I put there.”

“Yes, Daddy.” She darted out of the room and Jon took the opportunity to slip out of his sweatpants, nudging them under the coffee table and relaxing back against the cushions. She all but skipped back in, the rope draped over one arm, carelessly naked. Holding the rope out, she pushed her hair behind her shoulders, chewing on her lower lip. “Should I turn around or…?”

“It would be easier, yes.” He drew her back until her knees brushed the edge of the couch, pulling her arms behind her back, pressing them together from elbow to wrist. “This first part here is something called a two-column tie, which is just a fancy way of saying I’m tying your wrists together.” He began looping the rope around her wrists, keeping his movements slow and steady. “This is different from the other night for two reasons—one, the most obvious one, is while you’re not being bound to an inanimate object you’ll still have reduced range of motion.” He finished the anchoring knot, giving it a testing tug, humming under his breath in satisfaction. “Second, you won’t be able to slip out of this with   
a simple tug on the end of the rope. So you need to decide now if you’re comfortable with having your arms restrained for the duration of our little game.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes widening slightly. “If I say I am and then change my mind—.”

“You always have the option to use your safeword. Always.” He leaned forward and kissed first her shoulder and then her chin. “But if you get anxious or scared or decide you don’t like it, if you feel the need to use your safeword, I want you to be aware it’s going to take a few minutes to untie everything. That’s all. So if you feel the need to use your safeword, tell me before it becomes too strong, okay?”

“Okay.” She faced forward again, her hair slipping and sliding over her back, fire-kissed locks against porcelain white skin. “I’m ready.”

“Good girl.” He continued winding the rope up her arms, binding them together, murmuring praise with each loop before tying the final loop and knot at her elbows. Brushing her hair over her shoulder, leaving her back bare, he pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades. “How do you feel, sweet girl?”

“Off-balance. Like if I try and walk I may tip over.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the motion causing her ass to bounce just a little, and Jon bit back a smile of appreciation. “Can I sit down, please, Daddy?”

“Turn around.” He helped her climb back up on the sofa and straddle him, stroking her thighs before gripping her hips. “Now, you were wondering if it was possible for me to still be in control even when you were on top.” He slid his hands up her torso, lightly scratching his nails over her skin, chuckling when she tried to squirm only to freeze when she realized how precarious her balance was. “Tell me, sweet girl—do you feel in control right now?”

“No, Daddy.” And if the look in her eyes was any indication, she was very, very happy about it. She gave an experimental wiggle of her hips, her lips curving in a smirk. “I feel something else, though.”

“Ah-ah.” He slapped her ass, flicking his fingers at the end, the sharp crack echoing in the room. “Do you remember what happened the last time you were a brat?”

She stilled, her eyes going wide. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Do you really want to spend the evening being punished and not fucked? Because Daddy isn’t going to do both tonight, not when he has such a long day tomorrow.” He slapped her ass again, pressing his other hand to the small of her back to hold her on his lap. “So which one is it going to be, sweet girl?”

“I’d rather be fucked, Daddy.” She wiggled closer until she was able to brush her lips against his. “Please.”

“There’s my good girl.” He slipped one hand between her thighs, playing his fingers over her cunt, easing one between her folds until he was able to rub her clit. “I’m not going to lie, sweet girl—this is going to be hard and fast.”

“Whatever Daddy wants.” She ground down against his hand, her breath already starting to hitch in her lungs. She leaned forward, resting her chin on his shoulder, her mouth an inch from his ear. “Does Daddy want to pound his sweet girl’s cunt? Does Daddy want to fuck his sweet girl so hard she feels it the next day, distracting her, making sure she stays wet for him?”

“Fuck.” Trusting her to keep her balance, he moved his hand to his cock, stroking the length for a moment—although gods knew he didn’t need it, he was already hard to the point of aching—before slotting the head at the opening of her body. “Down you go, sweet girl.”

Slowly, so slowly he felt as if the moment was encased in sweet, sticky molasses, Sansa lowered herself on to his cock, not stopping until her hips were snug against his. He felt more than heard her low moan, biting back one of his own when she arched her back, clearly trying to take his cock deeper. When she spoke, it was almost a whine. “Daddy.”

“I know.” He gripped her hips again, as much to steady himself as to steady her. “Now, normally you would… well, you would ride me, which is really more bouncing or sometimes rolling or grinding your hips.” He slumped lower into the sofa, spreading his legs, bracing his feet on the floor for leverage. “But that’s only if you’re in charge. And you’re not, are you, sweet girl?”

“Uh-uh.” She shook her head, pressing her face to the curve of his neck. “Daddy’s in charge.”

“Yes. And now Daddy’s going to fuck his good girl.” He thrust his hips up, clenching his jaw when she moaned, the muscles in her cunt tightening around his cock. As much as he would have loved to draw out the moment, to luxuriate in the feeling, his blood was raging, the drive to possess, to mark her as his, even if only here, like this, blotting out all reason. He shoved one hand between their bodies, shifting and wiggling his fingers until he was able to press two against her clit. “You’re going to want to lean against me, sweet girl.”

He drove his hips up again and again, holding her in place with one hand, working the slippery bundle of nerves with the fingers of the other. The hardened peaks of her nipples slid against his chest with each thrust, their torsos slick with sweat. When she sucked in a deep breath, her body going rigid, he knew what she was about to ask. “No, Sansa. Not yet.”

“Please, Daddy.” She pressed butterfly kisses to his shoulder, relaxing against him, his cock sliding deeper. “Please, please, please.” She turned her head, kissing his cheek and then his temple and then his nose before brushing her lips over his. “Please, Daddy, please.”

“Fuck, I love it when you beg.” And so did his cock. He could feel his balls tightening and he knew he had only a handful of strokes before he lost the battle against his own orgasm. “Does Daddy’s good girl want to cum? Does she need to cum all over his cock? Answer me, sweet girl, and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

“Yes, Daddy, I need to cum on your cock.” She kissed him again, thrusting her tongue in his mouth, letting out the most delicious little whimpers and moans. “Please, Daddy, please, please—.”

“Cum for Daddy, sweet girl.” He barely finished murmuring the words before she clenched down on his cock, shifting her face to the side and sinking her teeth into his shoulder. The sudden—and entirely unexpected—pain jumpstarted his own release and he let out a hoarse yell as he emptied himself into her, his hips jerking three, four, five more times before he collapsed against the sofa. Sansa sagged against him, her own body continuing to jerk and spasm with tiny aftershocks. When he finally had his breath back, he kissed her cheek—the only part of her he could reach at the moment—and rasped out, “Lay facedown on the sofa for me, sweet girl.”

“I don’t know if I can move.” Her voice was thick, drowsy, dazed, and he knew she was still floating in subspace—a high-functioning subspace, yes, but subspace nonetheless. “I think… I think I need some help.”

“Okay, baby.” It took some work but he was able to maneuver Sansa until she was stretched out on the sofa, a pillow tucked under her head. He shook his head at the trembling in his hands as he began to untie the rope, stopping every few loops to massage the exposed skin. Pulling the rope free, he tossed it on the coffee table, moving her wrists in small circles, working out any kinks or potential cramps. Satisfied, he rolled her to her back, brushing the hair out of her face. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She gave him a dreamy, lazy smile and started to lift one hand only to drop it back to her stomach. “Can we just sleep here?”

“No.” He swallowed back a laugh. “The bed is bigger, more comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable here.”

“We wouldn’t be if we slept here for a good eight or nine hours.” He pushed to his feet, swaying for a moment before his legs stopped trembling. “Come on, baby. Lean on me, okay?”

“Okay.” She let him pull her to her feet, draping her arms over his shoulders, all but melting against him. “I wanna kiss you.”

“Do you?” He smiled, swallowing back another laugh when she nodded, her tongue peeping out from one corner of her mouth. “As soon as we’re in bed, sweet girl.”

“M’kay.” She stumbled along next to him, giggling when he shifted her, letting her flop back on the bed, her hair fanning out around her. She held her arms up and smiled. “Come’ere so I can kiss you.”

“So greedy.” Still, he obliged her, laying on top of her and letting her draw him down into the sort of kiss a man could, would, happily drown in, doing just that for long, long moments. Pulling away slightly, he whispered, “Bedtime, sweet girl.”

“M’kay.” She rolled to her side and he curled up behind her, his arm draped over her torso. “Cold.”

“Okay.” He pulled the duvet up, tucking her tighter against him. He was going to wake up with a mouthful of hair but it was a small price to pay. “Better?”

“Hmm.” She was silent for so long he was certain she’d fallen asleep until she suddenly spoke. “Tell me again.”

“I’m yours. And you’re mine.” He kissed the soft spot behind her ear. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post script: This was a very, very brief description of rope bondage, although the knot suggested and the aftercare concerning the removal of the ropes are both accurate depictions. Additionally, it's mentioned briefly in an earlier chapter but as a reminder if you're using ropes (and you're not going full hard-core kink) you're not going to want to use the same kind you would use to rope cattle or what have you as it's far too abrasive on the skin--silk rope or cord is optimal, unless you're using another kind of restraint such as cuffs. As discussed, the safeword still applies (babes--it ALWAYS applies) but it can be tricky to get out of rope bondage quickly, so you don't want to go full ham until you're comfortable with the idea of being fully restrained. Always remember SSC--safe, sane, consensual.


	18. Entremet—Millionaire Shortbread with Peanut Butter and Whisky Caramel and Dark Chocolate Sprinkled with Sea Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning strategy meeting with the full team.
> 
> (Warning: Mention of previous abuse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello there, friends. Long time, no see.
> 
> I can't even say why this last week was so rough. It was just incredibly draining all around and anytime I even thought about writing, my mind shut off. The desire was there, yes, but I physically couldn't bring myself to sit down and write. I tried, yes, but I just couldn't do it. I think I managed maybe 500 words in five days.
> 
> Yeah, friends. It was rough.
> 
> And then this morning I decided I was going to finish this chapter, no matter how long it took. It took about five hours, maybe a little longer, but I did finish it. Thank God. Hopefully the next chapter isn't as much of a raging cunt to get on the page.
> 
> Moving on, we're a smut free chapter, friends. So much flippin' plot and backstory and everything in order to push the story forward. It has to be done, friends, because as much as I enjoy smut, it's not the primary focus of this work. Maybe the next one. 
> 
> You'll notice some divergence from canon, more so than usual. For one, there's the aging up of Lyanna Mormont. In the show I believe there's something like a six-year gap between Lyanna and Arya. I've reduced that to about three, in order to have Arya, Bran, and Lyanna all in school at about the same time. I've also altered Theon's backstory some, one, because there isn't enough time in this work to keep to his backstory and have the characters interact amiably and two, a lot of his backstory no longer makes sense in the context of this universe. So Theon gets a new, slightly less tragic backstory and hopefully a happy ending (I don't know yet, I'm still mulling that one over).
> 
> Finally, for those of you who are in it for the food, we're in the back quarter of the courses. The entremet course begins the various dessert courses, of which there are a few (and which weirdly includes a savory course?) and I couldn't think of a more Northern/Scottish dessert than one which had both shortbread and whisky. 
> 
> As always, my thanks for all of your support. Happy reading!

“I need coffee. Now.” Arya pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and groaned. “All the coffee.”

“You’re always so grumpy in the morning.” Gendry dropped a kiss on her head before setting the cup of coffee in front of her, taking the seat next to her. “You should try meditation. Or yoga.”

“Yoga.” Arya dropped her hands, narrowing her eyes at her. “Funny, I’ve never heard you complain about a lack of flexibility before.”

“No.” Bran held up a hand. “No. We are not doing that this morning.” He shot Meera a smile of thanks when she handed him coffee and a bagel before turning his attention back to Arya. “I’m still scarred from last night, thank you very much.”

“You’re scarred? I was the one who saw everything and then some.” Meera tore her muffin in half, liberally spreading butter and jelly over one part before licking her fingers clean. “And you—.” She pointed her knife at Arya, her grin still visible behind her coffee cup. “Almost anybody else would have at least attempted to cover themselves or hide or something but not you. You’re just sitting there, naked as a jaybird, laughing like it’s the funniest joke in the world.”

“I mean, it was funny.” Arya shrugged. “And besides, Gendry was embarrassed enough for the both of us.” She glanced over at him. “I didn’t even know you could hit a note that high. You could have been a professional opera singer.”

“Your siblings are very… active.” Brienne murmured the observation, taking a small sip of her own coffee—black, no sugar. She straightened the folders on the table in front of her even though they were already perfectly aligned, doing her best to ignore Tormund, who was doing his best to get her attention.

Next to her, Pod listened to the conversation between Bran, Arya, and Gendry at the far end of the table with unabashed interest while Gilly and Meera held their own private conversation. Across the table, Sam pretended not to stare at Gilly, stammering out incomprehensible answers whenever she asked him a question. Davos simply sat and observed everything and everyone as if they were actors in a particularly interesting play, occasionally smiling and shaking his head, chuckling under his breath.

“That’s one word for it.” Sansa finished her own bagel, glancing up when Jon set another coffee in front of her. “I already had one cup.”

“Live dangerously and have a second.” He leaned down, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t carry further than her ear. “I woke you up very early this morning, remember?”

“Yes.” She willed the flush down and away at the memory of exactly how he’d woken her up. And how he’d ‘helped’ her in the shower. And how he’d ‘helped’ her get dressed for work. Clearing her throat, she said, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He took the seat next to her, his lips curving ever so slightly in a way which made her think she hadn’t quite succeeded at hiding the redness in her face. “Ready whenever you are, my Queen.”

“Right. Well.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smoothing it down with an almost fanatical attention. Clearing her throat, she looked around the table, waiting for the last few murmurs to fade away. “There are a number of issues we need to cover so let’s get started, yes?”

Before she could continue, the door burst open and Theon Greyjoy all but fell into the room, managing to catch himself on the doorframe at the last moment. Straightening, he tugged on his tie and then ran a hand over his hair, glancing around the table. “Uh, I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic was something of a nightmare coming from the Islands this morning.”

“It’s fine, we were just about to get things rolling.” Sansa waited until Theon managed to wedge a chair between Tormund and Davos, looking small and frail between the two burly men. Tapping the screen of her tablet, she said, “First, a quick look at the numbers.” She ran through the normal business operations—labor costs, food costs, guest complaints, staffing issues—before looking up. “Any questions or other issues?”

“I’m still looking for a sommelier—the inquiries I’ve made so far haven’t been fruitful.” Brienne flipped through a few screens on her own tablet, sighing and shaking her head. “Either they’re lacking experience or they have dubious connections and I don’t think we need to deal with any questions about loyalty, not with Restaurant Week rapidly approaching.”

“Lyanna can do it.” Arya broke off her whispered conversation with Gendry, swatting at one of his roving hands, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard from the far end of the table. “Lyanna Mormont, the girl from my high school? Her family runs Bear Island Vineyard. They’re like the wine version of us.”

“Meaning she’s already forgotten more about wine than any of us will ever learn and then some.” Bran shifted in his chair, giving a quick shake of his head when Meera sent him a questioning look. “I can run a background check on her, go down a few levels. Check her social media.” He shrugged. “Give me a few hours. I’ll be able to tell you if she’s a good hire.”

“If you’re worried about Southern connections, don’t be.” Arya slapped at Gendry’s hand again, although Sansa noted her sister’s other hand was slowly creeping up her husband’s thigh. “The Mormonts have never been fans of the South and after the Lannister trial the family put out a statement that they would no longer do business with any company who did business with the Lannisters.”

“That tracks—I remember Lyanna from high school, she was two years behind me, three behind Arya, and she was always big on women’s rights and other social justice issues.” Bran shrugged. “I still want to do a deep dive, just to be on the safe side. After all, none of us would have thought the Karstarks or the Umbers would have betrayed us.”

“Good point.” Sansa made a notation on her tablet before glancing over at Davos. “Do you need to leave the room or…?”

“As far as I can tell, you’re not doing anything illegal.” The older man shrugged, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on the folders stacked neatly in front of him. “Maybe a tad bit unethical but I’ve often found ethics to be something of a gray area, with ‘appropriate morals’ usually being decided on by people who’ve obtained their power by playing in the gray area.” He tapped his hands once, twice, before stilling them. “And as a lawyer, I can tell you the law has more than its fair share of gray areas.”

“Yes, it does.” Leaving it at that, Sansa looked down at her tablet again before looking up at Jon. He met her gaze, his own steady and unflinching, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “And we’re going to play in one or two of those areas over the next few weeks in order to right some wrongs.”

“This is about Bolton, isn’t it? And Baelish.” Gilly sipped her tea, her voice lacking any and all inflection. “Because the two are essentially one and the same and they did their best to try and run Winterfell into the ground.”

“It is.” Sansa would have left it at that. She should have known her siblings wouldn’t.

“It’s not.” Arya scowled at Sansa’s sigh. “Yeah, what they tried to do to the business is a big deal because it’s our family name but it’s not family. They thought they could fuck with family and they’re about to find out how wrong they were.”

“The pack survives.” Bran took Meera’s hand, shooting Sansa a fierce grin which reminded her unerringly of their father. “Usually by taking out their enemies.”

“So it’s not just business, it’s personal.” Davos nodded, glancing at Sam, waiting for his nod before shifting his gaze to Sansa. “Not to be blunt, Ms. Stark, but the, uh… proclivities of both Bolton and Baelish are known in the industry, even if they’re not spoken of in polite company.” He paused, clearing his throat a few times before speaking again. “Can I take your siblings’ statements to mean you’ve experienced some of those… proclivities firsthand?”

Sansa didn’t answer—which was, apparently, answer enough.

Davos exchanged an indecipherable look with Sam before nodding. “Aye. Well, then. I’m going to assume murder is off the table, otherwise you wouldn’t have us here.”

“Murder is off the table.” Sansa snapped her fingers at her siblings when Arya grumbled, Bran muttered, Meera glowered, and Gendry grunted. “I’m serious. It’s off the table. The last thing I need at the moment is worrying about getting a phone call from the police that they’ve arrested one or all of you.”

“And I’m pointing out, yet again, we’re only an hour or so from the coast.” Tormund lifted his hands and shoulders in a shrug before letting them fall to his lap. “Cliffs are high, trails are treacherous, rocks are sharp… even an experienced hiker could put a foot wrong and, well….” He trailed off, shrugging again. “Whoopsie-daisy.”

“And even if the cliffs aren’t an option, it’s no secret Bolton’s a hunter—he likes to brag about his skill with a crossbow.” Podrick didn’t look up from his tablet, continuing to take notes as if the meeting hadn’t taken a bizarre and macabre turn. “Still, even the most skilled hunter can make a mistake. Trip on a log, fall down a slope, accidently set off their weapon.” He glanced up at Sansa, his expression calm and placid, quintessential Podrick. “Again—whoopsie-daisy.”

Sansa sighed. “And again, no.”

“They deserve it.” Theon spoke for the first time since he’d fumbled his way into the room, his voice choked, hoarse. He swiped a hand under his nose and across his face, smearing snot and tears. “If anybody deserves to die, whether by rocks or a misplaced arrow, it’s Bolton and Baelish.”

“Yes, they do. But death, even a long, drawn-out one, is the end of all punishment.” Sansa rose, rounding the table and crossing to Theon, turning his chair to face her. Kneeling in front of him, she took his face in one hand, using the sleeve of her jacket to wipe his cheeks. She waited until he met her gaze before continuing. “I want them to live a long, long time and I want them to hurt every single day of that time.”

Theon huffed out a breath and offered her a shaky smile. “I guess that’s acceptable.”

“Good.” She returned to her seat, giving Jon a minute shake of her head when he sent her a questioning look. “Davos, Sam, my brother is doing some research on both Bolton and Baelish.”

“I’ve already sent them the first round.” Bran flashed a brilliant smile. “I’m sure the various tax collecting agencies will be interested in the discrepancies between Baelish’s reported income and his actual monthly expenditures.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will.” Davos chuckled. “And I’ve got a friend or two who have, let’s say, big ears and a bad tendency to listen to gossip.”

“I’ll talk to the director of The Keep.” Gilly set her tea aside, making some notations on her own tablet. “Bolton was here at Winterfell for three year.” She glanced at Sansa, her lips flattened into a thin line. “I doubt he went three years without indulging himself.”

“So do I.” And Sansa’s stomach turned at the thought that as bad as her own experience was she might have been one of the lucky ones. “Moving on, what do we know about Fire and Blood and their plans for the North?”

“I can provide some insight there.” Theon straightened, smoothing a hand over his tie and sniffling one last time before continuing. “The owner of the group, Daenerys Targaryen, indicated during her initial consultation with Greyjoy Advertising that she planned to launch the Westerosi branch of her operations in the North but would rapidly expand to the other regions.” He took a sip of water, his voice stronger when he spoke again. “She wants to be _the_ restaurant group and she also indicated any owner who doesn’t want to be taken under her umbrella would find they’d made the wrong decision.”

“And again, that tracks.” Bran shifted in his chair, tapping a few keys on his laptop—he’d sent Sansa a pitying look when she’d offered him a company tablet—and scanning the screen before continuing. “Her family was originally from Westeros but left the country almost twenty years ago, right about the time the CEO of their company, Three Dragons, Inc, was charged with embezzlement. He set his house on fire, took out himself and his older son. His other son, Viserys, and Daenerys fled across the Narrow Sea to Essos. She eventually marries Khal Drogo, owner of Khalasar, which was a small chain of ethnic restaurants. Rumor has it Drogo killed her brother in some sort of domestic dispute and then a few months later Drogo catches some strange viral infection and dies.” He huffed out a breath, continuing to study the screen. “She starts buying more and more restaurants, expanding from quick-service casual to fine dining, before setting up shop in Meereen, where she’s been laying low and biding her time before making the push to Westeros.”

“She has a gods complex—believes because her family ran the Westerosi restaurant scene that she’s entitled to run it now.” Theon scrubbed a hand over the nape of his neck and then up through his hair, his attention focused on his notes. “She has a small group of advisors, among them Tyrion Lannister and Jorah Mormont, and from what I saw during that one meeting they’re all essentially feeding her ego.”

“Which means they either believe that running an entire industry is her gods given right and destiny or they recognize they’re dealing with a narcissistic personality and are doing whatever’s necessary to keep their jobs.” Arya rolled her eyes when Gendry pulled her into his lap and nipped at her earlobe. “And that’s all the psychological jargon I can use for now because for some reason it does things to my husband’s libido.”

“I can’t help it if find all that intelligence so attractive.” He nuzzled her ear before giving her cheek a soft, almost chaste kiss. “You’re so smart, so strong, so pretty, and I just want to—.”

“Let’s set up a meeting with Ms. Targaryen, or try to, anyway. I’d like to hear from this would-be queen herself what her plans are for the North.” Sansa cut Gendry off before he could go into a graphic description of what exactly he wanted to do to her sister, although if the snickers and coughs around the table were any indication everybody had their own suspicions about Gendry’s intentions. “Davos, if you could work on that. Sam, why don’t you go with Gilly to The Keep, see if you can find out anything about Bolton. Arya, you and Bran work together, dig deeper on Baelish, put those psychology and computer criminology and cyber security degrees to use.” She made notations in her tablet, as if the list of assignments was completely normal. “Brienne and Tormund, we need to start finalizing the menu for Restaurant Week. Podrick, I’d like you to work with Theon on a campaign targeted at a younger, hipper crowd.”

“It’ll be a nice counterpoint to the image the Lannisters and Ms. Targaryen are trying to present—fine dining is only for the wealthy, the upper-class, the old vanguard.” Theon nodded, jotting on his legal notepad. “By appealing to a younger group, people in our age range, it shows fine dining is accessible to anyone.”

“And by serving traditional, yet modernized, dishes, we’re showing we value where we came from even while we look to the future.” Jon tapped his knuckles on the table, nodding. “The North remembers.”

“Yes, we do.” Sansa stood, smoothing down her dress before starting to gather her things. “And we’re going to make sure everybody else does as well.”

Jon followed her out of the conference room, falling into step next to her. “So Theon.”

She waited until they were ensconced in her office, the door shut and locked, before answering. “He made the mistake of owing Ramsey Bolton money—gambling debts. When he couldn’t pay… Baelish brokered the same kind of deal he did with me.”

“I thought you said Theon owed you.”

“I shouldn’t have phrased it that way. It’s more that we have a connection because we have a shared experience. Theon was there.” Sansa set her tablet and coffee down on her desk before dropping on the sofa with a sigh. “Bolton had spent the better part of the week ‘warming up’ with Theon—that’s how he phrased it—and he kept Theon there as entertainment when he wasn’t working on me.”

“Ah.” Jon sat next to her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her against him, murmuring low in his throat when she settled her head on his shoulder. “Yes, I can see how that would form a bond, a sense of obligation.”

“He started going to therapy.” Sansa turned her face toward him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “He thinks it would be a good idea if I did, too.”

“If you’re looking to me to give you advice on that… I don’t know what to tell you.” Jon stroked his hand up and down her arm, his gaze steady on hers. “I can tell you I did the therapy thing for a bit after my mom died. I can’t say if it helped me, because I don’t know how I’d be if I hadn’t gone, but it didn’t hurt.” He shrugged. “Maybe you should talk to your sister. Fancy psychology degree and all.”

“Maybe.” She sighed. “I’ll think about it.” She stifled a yawn. “God, I’m exhausted already and the day hasn’t even started.”

“So take a nap.” He toed off his shoes before leaning forward and picking up his tablet from the coffee table. “You don’t have a meeting with the front of house staff today so you’re free and clear for another three hours or so.”

“Technically, yes, but I really should take another look at the labor costs for the last month and—.”

“The labor costs aren’t going to change, whether you go over them now or later tonight while you’re waiting for me to close up the kitchen.” He maneuvered her until she was stretched out, her head in his lap, clucking his tongue until she kicked off her own shoes. Pulling the throw off the back of the sofa, he tossed it over her, tucking in the edges. He propped his feet on the coffee table, letting the tablet rest on his knees. “Take a nap, sweet girl. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Look over some recipes, do some research.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “Watch over you.”

She smiled, her eyelids already growing heavy. “Sounds boring.”

“Not at all, sweet girl.” He laced his fingers with hers. “Not at all.”


	19. Savoury--Scottish Woodcock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new--and surprising--ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, let me be honest--quarantine is kicking my ass.
> 
> But enough of my troubles.
> 
> Juicy plot time. A little tease of smut. Hopefully we'll be going full smut at some point next week when the quarantine depression has lifted.
> 
> Again, another traditional Scottish recipe which I learned shares a name with a bird but does not include said bird. Because cooking is weird, man.
> 
> I'm floored by the appreciation and love this work has received and thrilled that so many of you are loving the family dynamic. As always, happy reading, my lovelies.

“Come in.” Sansa glanced up when the door opened, dropping her pen in shock when she saw who stood on the other side. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s quite a long story, one which should really be discussed over drinks in some tucked away corner booth while a jazz band plays some sultry tune.” Jamie Lannister leaned against the door frame, his hand tucked in his suit jacket pocket, his golden hair gloriously and dramatically windblown. His smile was charmingly crooked, the perfect rogue, and Sansa found herself smiling back before she could catch herself. “Authority looks good on you, Red.”

“Thank you.” She stood, smoothing down her dress before gesturing to the set of chairs in front of the coffee table. “It’s not a corner booth but it’s the best we can under the circumstances. Would you like some coffee or some tea or…?”

“No, not unless you’d like something for yourself.” He took the chair closest to the door, unbuttoning his jacket as he lowered himself to the seat, seemingly as graceful as ever. Only someone who had known him before his accident would have seen the small hitches in his motion, the minute clumsiness, or would have noticed the way his mouth tightened at the corners and thinned before he caught himself, shooting her another lazy smile. “Or unless you really do want to take me up on that offer to share a drink or two.”

“It probably wouldn’t be good for me to greet guests with alcohol on my breath.” Not that it had ever seemed to be an issue for Cersei. Sansa could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen the older woman without a glass of wine, especially during one of the dinner shifts at the school restaurant. Sansa perched on the edge of her own chair, crossing her ankles and resting her hands in her lap. “So what brings you this far North? The last gossip I heard had you heading the kitchen at RiverRun—congratulations on that particular coup, by the way.”

“I’ll be sure to pass them along to my father since the success is really his—you know how much Tywin loves to wheel and deal.” Jamie shrugged. “He apparently made the Tullys an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

“I’m sure he did.” Leaving it at that, Sansa studied the older man, marking the similarities—and differences-between him and his sister. Like Cersei, there was something almost careless about his beauty, as if he was supremely unaware of his looks or the effect they tended to have on people, while the hint of mockery in his gaze suggested otherwise. Unlike Cersei, there was this air of weariness about him, as if he’d seen what the world was made of and he wasn’t particularly impressed with it. “So, Mr. Lannister—.”

“Oh, please.” Jamie rolled his eyes. “That’s my father. Besides, we were almost related.”

“And hopefully you’ll understand why I’m happy it was simply ‘almost’ and not an actuality.”

“Joffery is something of a little shit, isn’t he?” Jamie shrugged again. “I’m still not sure why, seeing as how Myrcella and Tommen both are so good-natured, but it’s too late to hope he’ll become less of a shit, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I would.” Sansa continued to study him. “Is that why you’re here? You’re tired of dealing with your little shit of a… nephew and your absolute bitch of a sister?”

“I washed my hands of my… nephew years ago.” He sent her a knowing look, acknowledging the gossip which had been making its way through Westeros for the better part of the last decade. “And Cersei….” Another shrug. “She was horrible to you because she was scared of you. Not that she’d ever admit it or that it excuses her behavior but—.”

“Why in the name of the old gods and the new would Cersei Lannister be scared of me?” Sansa laughed and shook her head. “You’re absolutely mad.”

“She’s scared of you because you’re better educated, better connected. People work for you, stay with your company for years—sometimes generations—because you treat them well, you provide for them, you make them want to be loyal to you. That level of loyalty can’t be bought, which is something neither my father nor my sister have ever been able to accept.” He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, his gaze steady on hers. “You’re also more attractive but then you’ve always known that, just as you’ve always known how to use your looks. In that way you’re not so different from my sister.”

“You flatter me.” She settled back in her chair, oddly at ease despite the undercurrent of sexual tension between them. When she’d first arrived at Red Keep, she’d been in awe of Jamie Lannister, of his name, his skill, his looks. Once she’d caught Joffery’s eye and begun to spend more time with his family, she’d lost some of that wide-eyed wonder, finding the older man to possess a sly sense of humor, one he wasn’t afraid to use on his family or even himself when the occasion called for it. “I honestly didn’t think you gave me that much thought.”

“Red.” Jamie leveled a look on her, one she was used to receiving from Jon but would never have imagined receiving from Jamie Lannister and something clutched low in her stomach. “Really?”

Before she could think of a response, the door opened again after the most cursory of knocks and Jon stepped inside, almost as if her thoughts had summoned him up. He glanced from her to Jamie and back, arching one brow in question. “Bran said you had an unusual visitor.”

“Bran has always been a nosy little tell-tale.” She started to gesture toward the sofa, biting back a sigh when Jon chose to perch on the arm of her chair, his body partially blocking hers. “And since Mr. Lannister—.”

“Again, that’s my father, not me.”

“Since _Jamie_ has yet to tell me why he’s here, I’m not sure if he can be termed unusual so much as unexpected.” Sansa shifted, leaning on the free arm of the chair, shifting until she was able to see around Jon. “If you would be so kind…?”

“I’d like to come work for you, in whatever position you’ll take me.”

Out of all the things Jamie Lannister could have said to her, that was far and away the least likely one she would have anticipated. She blinked once, twice, three times. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve left RiverRun, left Lion and Stag entirely, actually.” He settled back in his chair, uncrossing his legs and resting his ankle on the opposite knee. The roguish smile was back in place, at complete odds with the stiffness which pervaded his frame, despite his efforts to appear nonchalant. “I’ve broken from my family completely and as such find myself in need of new employment.”

“Bullshit.” Jon bit off the word with more force than necessary, the faintest hint of a brogue coming through. When Sansa glanced up at him, frowning, he rested his hand on her shoulder, squeezing once. “Sorry, darling, but it’s true. There’s about as much chance of the Golden Cub leaving the South as there is of the Starks leaving the North.”

“I haven’t been referred to as the ‘Golden Cub’ in ages, since before I was eighteen, and I found it even more galling of an epithet coming from an individual easily a decade younger than myself.” Jamie sent the younger man a pointed stare before turning his attention back to Sansa. “Despite what your Florian would believe, I am quite serious. I’m cut all ties with my family.”

Choosing to ignore the comment comparing Jon to the fabled knight, Sansa cleared her throat and said, “And why would you do that?”

“Oh, a few reasons—disagreements with my family mostly, about their expectations for the business, about the way they’re choosing to run it.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor between them. “About some of the methods they’re choosing to utilize to try and get ahead.”

“Some of the methods.” Sansa stared at him, doing her best to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the burn of nausea as bile threatened to make its way up her throat. “Such as?”

“I was shocked to discover how close my sister had become with Petyr Baelish in recent years. Even more shocked when I discovered she’d cultivated a business relationship with Roose Bolton.” Jamie paused, his teeth worrying his lower lip for a long moment before he continued. “I understand that until recently his son, Ramsey, worked for you. I also understand both he and Baelish were released from their contracts at roughly the same time and that Baelish brokered the severance agreement.”

“The severance agreement.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, struggling to keep her voice level. “Such a polite term for what they did.” She waited until he lifted his gaze to hers before continuing. “Are you telling me Cersei knew what they would do?”

“No.” Jon squeezed her shoulder. “No, he’s telling you his sister was the one who set everything into motion—Bolton being hired as manager, his efforts to ruin the restaurant, Baelish’s brokering of the severance agreements, the terms… Cersei orchestrated all of it.” His voice was low, strained, as if he was struggling to keep from yelling. “Because she wanted to finish you before you began. End the competition before it started. Isn’t that right, Lannister?”

“I can only assume those were her intentions—her and my father. I’ve been kept out of the loop since my unfortunate encounter with the meat grinder but it’s very much the type of scheme they like to orchestrate.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a harsh, ragged whisper. “I swear by the old gods and the new, if I would have known what they planned to do, I would have warned you and done my best to stop them.”

“I believe you.” Sansa swallowed, again choosing to ignore Jon when he surged to his feet and strode away, cursing under his breath. “I believe you.” She leaned forward, reaching out and resting her hand on Jamie’s, squeezing gently. “Does she know that’s why you left?”

“Yes. I told her….” He trailed off, swallowing a few times before continuing, his voice choked. “I told her that of all the things she’d done, this was the worst. This was what made her the monster she’d always claimed to be.” He straightened, offered a careless shrug, but didn’t pull away. “And I left.”

“And now you’re here.” Jon spun around, his fists clenched at his side, and for a moment Sansa wondered if he was going to attack Jamie the way he’d attacked Baelish. “Begging for a job. Why should she give you one?”

“Because even with only one hand I’m still a better chef than probably half the men in your kitchen and I’m more than willing to share my decades of knowledge.” Jamie flicked a glance at Jon before returning his attention to Sansa. “And because it will make my sister blind with fury and hatred and that, in turn, will make her sloppy. People make mistakes when they’re sloppy.”

“Yes, they do.” Sansa settled back in her seat, her hand slipping from his. “However, I have no say on who is and isn’t hired for the kitchen. That’s Jon’s area.”

“I see.” Jamie looked at Jon, silently watching them. “Well, I suppose that’s it, then.” He stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Stark.”

“I’ve been trying to find someone in-house to run the potager station. I’ve tried out a few of the guys but I’m not sure they have the skill set yet and we’re only about six weeks or so out from Restaurant Week.” Jon looked none too pleased about his own suggestion but at least he looked somewhat less murderous than a few moments earlier. “That’s the only position I have open at the moment.”

“Then that’s the one I’ll take.” Jamie offered Sansa a bow, taking her hand in his and brushing his lips over his knuckles. “My thanks, Red.” Straightening, he turned to Jon and said, “Do I have time to run to my lodgings and change into something more suitable for the kitchen or should I resign myself to ruining this suit?”

“We start prep at two.” Jon issued the statement through clenched teeth. “That should be more than enough time to ‘change into something more suitable for the kitchen’.”

“Indeed.” Giving Sansa a final nod, Jamie glided out of the room as coolly and casually as he’d glided in, closing the door behind him.

Sansa clasped her hands together, tapping them on her knees for a moment before unclasping them, resting them on the scrolled arms of the chair. “So.”

“I don’t like it—him working here, especially when he’s infatuated with you.”

Sansa blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s infatuated with you, probably has been for some time, but didn’t feel it was appropriate to act on when you were still in school and involved with his family.” Jon sighed, shoving one hand through his hair and turning away to pace up and down the length of the room. “And then he finds out what his monster of a sister did and he cast himself in the role of the white knight, running North to defend the besieged lady.”

“Jamie Lannister is not infatuated with me.” She would have laughed at the ludicrousness of the statement if not for the fact Jon seemed so serious. “He’s fourteen, fifteen years older than me. He’s been linked to half the supermodels in Westeros. And he’s gorgeous.”

“Lots of women like older men, you’ve been linked to some high-profile names yourself, and you’re gorgeous, too.” Jon scrubbed his hands over his face, grumbling under his breath. “Anyway, it’s going to cause issues, a big name like Jamie Lannister working in a kitchen but not running it. I’m going to have to pull him aside, have a meeting with him, and then have a meeting with the whole staff.”

“You didn’t have to hire him.”

“You wanted me to.” Some of her disbelief must have shown because he sighed. “You did. Maybe not in so many words but you did. And even if I don’t like the way he looks at you and even if I think it’ll cause some degree of chaos in the kitchen, I can appreciate why he left his family’s business and why he came here.”

“You still didn’t have to hire him.” She stood, crossing the room and catching him in mid-stride, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him tight, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “Thank you.” Tipping her head back, she kissed his chin. “Do you really think he’s infatuated with me?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“No, not at all. I’m just curious.” She fluttered her lashes at him, biting back a squeal when he scooped her up and swung her toward the desk, dropping her firmly on the paper covered surface. Her shocked gasp wasn’t feigned when he stepped between her legs and began shoving up her skirt. “Jon. It’s the middle of the day.”

“And?” He stroked the inside of her thigh, smirking when she shivered.

“And….” She trailed off, sighed when he leaned in and kissed the curve of her neck, letting her head drop back to give him greater access. “And the door isn’t locked.”

“Then you’re going to want to be quiet or this time it’s going to be Arya walking in on you and not the other way around.” He slid his hand higher, his fingertips brushing the thin cotton of her underwear and he turned his head just in time to capture her moan with his mouth. Drawing back, he whispered, “Can you be quiet, sweet girl?”

It was absolute insanity. Anybody could walk in on them.

Sansa nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”


	20. Polishing the Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans continue to be made, professionally and personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello, friends. It has, in fact, been QUITE a while.
> 
> I thought I was stressed at the beginning of the apocalypse. Apparently, I was wrong. All of that was simply pre-stress, if you will, in preparation for the true stress which was, to put it lightly, a bitch.
> 
> Fear not, though, friends--I have not abandoned this work. I have, in fact, almost finished plotting out the remainder of the work, which is highly unusual for me--I'm much more of a pantser/let's see where the story takes us kind of writer.
> 
> Moving forward, I'm going to do my best to update once a week. I won't promise more than that because I feel that's setting us all up for disappointment. But I should be able to do once a week.
> 
> I would say we're heading into the final third of this work, which will include some VERY intense sex scenes as well as restaurant industry intrigue and the takedown of some truly horrible people. So, nothing but fun times ahead. Thanks for sticking with this work and with me. Happy reading, friends.

“This is an interesting wrinkle.” Bran scratched the tip of his nose with a pen, frowning, although whether it was directed at his computer screen or the news about Jamie Lannister was uncertain. “Hmm.”

“He’s not really talking to us.” Meera gave him an indulgent smile, patting his shoulder as she settled into her seat. “When he’s on a trench dive, he tends to forget other people exist.”

“A trench dive?” Gendry paused in the middle of pulling Arya on to his lap, his frown mirroring Bran’s. “Let me guess—hacker language?”

“You know how people say they did a deep dive on a subject or like scroll through a year’s worth of their crush’s social media?” Meera didn’t wait for Gendry to answer. “A trench dive is deeper than that—it’s like going to the deepest part of the Internet and bringing back everything you find.”

“If the Internet is like the ocean, he’s braver than I am.” Arya shuddered, wrapping one arm around Gendry’s waist and cuddling against him. “I’m fine with sailing and maybe some surface diving but deeper than that….” She trailed off, shuddering again. “There’s things down there which have never seen the light of day, things we can’t even begin to imagine, and I have no desire to come face to face with any of that.”

“Meera, do you think you can try and bring my brother up from his dive so he can join the conversation?” Sansa settled herself on the sofa next to Jon, waiting until he’d tucked the throw over her lap before picking up her notepad and pen. She would have preferred the tablet but Jon and Davos had both pointed out that traditional paper was much easier to destroy than electronic records. “And Gendry.”

“No need to say anything else.” He leaned back in the chair, taking Arya with him, and stretched out his legs. “I promise to be on my best behavior for the next few hours.”

“I hope to all the old gods and the new we’re not still hashing things out in a few hours.” Arya fell back against Gendry with a dramatic sigh, lifting her free hand to her forehead and fluttering her lashes, affecting a sticky, syrupy accent. “Why, I’m having palpitations just thinking about it.”

“And here I thought I was the only thing in the world which made your heart skip a beat.” Gendry nuzzled her temple, winking at Sansa. “Don’t worry, babe. If your heart rate gets too low I know how to pick it up.”

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how he managed to convince me to marry him—all that sweet talk.” Arya rolled her eyes but shifted until she wasn’t cuddling her husband so much as laying against him. “Anyway, Sansa’s right. Let’s buckle down and focus so we can figure out our next move.”

“I’m still pulling out information on Daenerys Targaryen, personal information, the kind of stuff Arya can pick apart and analyze and we can use against her. It’s harder than I thought it would be, primarily because she’s lived so much of her life in the public eye that there really isn’t anything people don’t already know.” Bran finally lifted his gaze from his computer screen, pressing a single key before lowering the lid until it was almost closed but not quite. He frowned again when Meera handed him a plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit. “I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are, you’re just still so focused on the work you haven’t realized you’re hungry.” Meera took the laptop from him and set it aside. “Eat.” When Bran continued to stare at her, she lifted her brows. “Even birds need to eat.”

Jon paused in the middle of handing Sansa her cup of tea. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My handle.” Bran plucked a grape from the bunch, rolling it between his fingers for a moment before popping it in his mouth. “Three-Eyed Raven—knows all, sees all, past, present, and future.”

“And you’re so modest, too.” Jon sipped his whisky, glancing at Sansa. “So—Jamie Lannister.”

“You worked with him tonight so I know you’re aware of his skills. There were some who thought he wouldn’t be able to continue to work with only one hand, his own family included, but he refused to listen to them.” Sansa made a note to ask Jamie if he was interested in any of the insurance or pension programs the restaurant offered for employees, although she doubted he had need for either. “More importantly for us, this is the first time he’s made a break from his family and he did it of his own volition. I don’t think he has ulterior motives, at least toward us, but Bran, if you could figure out a way to monitor his emails—.”

“Say no more.” Bran popped a small cube of cheese in his mouth, widening his eyes. “Seriously, Sans, say no more. I swept the apartment earlier today for bugs but you can never be too safe.”

“Oh.” Sansa blinked, exchanging a look with Jon. “Do you really think that’s something we need to be worried about?”

“I think the other players in this game don’t have the morals of a starving and rabid raccoon and it would be dangerous to forget that.” Jon reached over, resting his hand on her knee and squeezing gently before shifting his attention to Bran. “Do you think sometime tomorrow you can sweep my apartment? The security in my building is top-tier but—.”

“I hate to tell you this but no security system which is absolutely hack-proof.” Bran gestured at himself. “I have hacked plenty of supposedly ‘non-hackable’ systems.” He nibbled the edge of one cracker, making a sound of approval low in his throat. “Don’t worry. Meera and I will go over your place with a fine-tooth comb.”

“After your appointment with the new physical therapist.” Meera sipped her wine, raising her brows when Bran scowled at her. “Don’t look at me like that. We agreed when we settled down that you would start seeing a physical therapist. We’re settled. So, physical therapy time.”

“Whenever you can, guys—just let me know when you’re headed over and I’ll call and let the doorman know.” Jon slid his hand from Sansa’s knee but before she could even begin to feel disappointed at the loss, he draped his arm across the back of the sofa, tangling his fingers in the ends of her hair. “So we’re still digging on Fire and Blood. What about Baelish—other than the information I’m sure you’ve already passed along to the respective governmental organizations?”

“We’re handling Baelish.” Gendry tucked Arya against him, almost like a small child would their favorite toy, although there was nothing childlike about the way his hand kept creeping up her thigh. “I did some surveillance on him earlier today and Arya took over when I had to go into work.”

“Pretty sure the extra income he’s not reporting is coming from the little establishment he owns over on Flea Bottom Lane.” Arya managed to twist out of her husband’s embrace long enough to grab her glass of wine, taking a sip and passing it to Gendry before continuing. “If he’s not running a brothel, I’ll throw a charity gala.”

“We should probably throw some sort of party to announce your wedding and Bran’s engagement but I get what you’re saying.” Sansa leaned back against Jon’s arm, wishing she could be as carelessly affectionate as Arya was with Gendry. “So Baelish is running a brothel. I can’t say I’m surprised. I’m assuming you’re going to use his ownership of the brothel to ruin him socially in the same way that Bran is going to use his taxes to ruin him legally but I can’t see how.”

“Sex work in and of itself is legal in Westeros—but only if the worker is of legal age and is participating in the work of their own free will.” Arya took her wine back, downing half the contents in a single gulp. “Which I’m certain isn’t the case for all of Baelish’s workers.”

“I know one or two of the girls I saw leaving or going into the house were… well, if they were legal, they were barely legal.” The seemingly perpetual merriment in Gendry’s eyes faded away, as did his smile, and he suddenly looked older, harsher. “And they didn’t look too thrilled to be going to work.”

“So I’m going to bust out some of my stuff from drama, see about getting an interview with whoever is in charge. I doubt it’s Baelish but even if it is he hasn’t seen me in years and he didn’t really care enough about me to notice me anyway.” Arya shrugged, finishing off her wine and setting it on the table at her elbow. “Besides, you know how good I am at putting on other faces.”

“And I’m going to try and get one of the younger girls to talk to me.” Gendry shrugged. “I’m thinking about asking Gilly if she can spare some time to hang with me, make the girls feel more comfortable. She might be able to convince them to go to that shelter she mentioned.”

“You two sound as if you have things under control. Keep us in the loop and let us know if you need help with anything.” Sansa rubbed the nape of her neck, glancing at Jon when he brushed her hand away and then sighing and leaning in to his touch when he began to work on the knot plaguing her. “I know you were joking when you mentioned throwing a gala but I think we should do just that. The last night of Restaurant Week—we’ll celebrate your marriage, Bran’s engagement, and the takedown of the Lannisters, their allies, and this Targaryen who wants to be Queen.”

“Let me see if I understand you—in the next six weeks, you want to dismantle two different restaurant groups, put a few people in jail, take top honors in one of the most prestigious events in the country, and throw a ball for some of the elite members of society?” Meera blinked once, twice, and then shifted her gaze from Sansa to Bran. “Is she joking or is she serious?”

“Oh, she’s serious.” Bran grinned. “And if anybody could pull it off it’ll be Sansa.”

**********************************************************************************

Later that night, Jon watched as Sansa meticulously went through her bedtime skincare routine even as she continued to dictate a rough outline for the upcoming gala into her tablet. When she paused to dry her face, he said, “You don’t think you might be stretching yourself a bit thin?”

“Hmm?” She shook the handtowel out only to fold it neatly, draping it over the thin metal bar mounted to the wall before reaching for her face cream. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

“I know you can accomplish everything you’ve put on your list.” He rolled to his side, propping his chin in his palm and watching as she finished with the first product and moved on to serum. “But I don’t want you to overwork yourself. There’s no use planning for a celebration if you’re going to be too exhausted to enjoy it.”

“Honestly, I could probably plan the gala in my sleep.” She patted her cheeks a few times before reaching for her undereye cream. “I was helping Mother with seating arrangements and place settings before I was ten. If I hadn’t fallen in love with the restaurant I’d probably be working special events or planning weddings or something similar.”

“Be that as it may….” He trailed off, tapping his fingers on his stomach as he watched her. Every movement, every flick of her wrist, every gentle swipe of her fingers, was imbued with an inherent grace so captivating that for a moment he forgot what he was saying. Giving his head a quick shake, he said, “Sorry, lost my train of thought.”

“Oops.” She flipped off the bathroom light, leaning against the doorframe for a moment, the smile playing at the corners of her lips mirroring the motion of her fingers at the hem of her nightslip. “Sorry.”

“Hmm.” He crooked his finger. “Come here, darling. Daddy wants to have a little talk with you.” He patted the mattress, smirking when her smile faded. “Now why are you looking so worried, sweet girl?”

“Because.” She crossed the room, climbing up on the bed and kneeling next to him, looking demure and innocent despite the slip of lace which barely covered her. “Daddy looks upset.”

“Not at all, sweet girl.” He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, tracing one finger down her jaw. “Just curious about some things.”

She turned her head slightly, kissing his fingertip before nipping at the pad of his finger. “Like what?”

“I want you to answer me honestly.”

Her eyes went wide and he had to resist the urge to kiss her. “Of course, Daddy.”

“Are you attracted to Jamie Lannister?”

She stared at him for a moment before lowering her gaze to the bed and he tapped his finger on her lower lip until she met his gaze again. Lifting his brows, he said, “I asked you a question, sweet girl.”

“I… I don’t….” She stammered unintelligibly for a moment before clamping her lips together, drawing in a deep breath through her nose and then exhaling. “Yes. But—.”

“No ‘buts’, sweet girl.” Jon rolled to his back, pulling her down to curl against his side, one hand skimming up and down her ribs and torso. “It’s interesting.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you’ve picked up on this but normally I don’t believe in sharing.” He slipped his hand under her nightshirt, his fingertips small, burning points against her upper thigh. “And yet, I find the thought of seeing you with Jamie Lannister, of sharing you with Jamie Lannister highly… intriguing.”

“Intriguing, hmm?” She pushed to her knees then swung one leg over him, straddling his hips. Giving an experimental wiggle, she sank her teeth into her lower lip, biting back a giggle when his cock hardened underneath her. “Intriguing how?”

“I want to see how you look on your knees for another man.” Between one breath and the next he reared up, rolling her to her back and pressing her against the mattress. He dragged his teeth down the line of her throat, just barely biting the spot where her pulse was beginning to hammer. “I want to see your face as another man sinks his cock into your pretty little cunt.” He played his fingers over the folds of her cunt, murmuring his approval under his breath when she spread her legs wider, allowing him greater access. “And I want to feel how tight your ass squeezes my cock when Jamie Lannister’s cock is buried in your cunt.”

“Oh.” The single word came out on a broken exhale and she bit her lower lip again, grabbing his wrist with one hand and twisting the other in the sheets. She arched her hips toward their joined hands, whining in the back of her throat when he curled his fingers into his palm, denying her the pressure she wanted. “I haven’t… I mean, I’ve never—.”

“Been fucked in the ass?” He delivered the crude phrase in the silkiest tones, pressing a gentle kiss to her neck before shifting upward, flicking his tongue over her earlobe. “Something told me that might be the case, darling, but considering how much you enjoy the brush of a finger there….” He trailed off, matching his actions to his words, a single finger pressing against the small, delicate entrance to her ass, chuckling when she squirmed. “I have the impression you’d enjoy a cock just as much. Probably more.”

“Maybe.” Even though she wanted to continue lifting her hips against his hand, hoping he would give her what she wanted, Sansa forced herself to relax, to sink back against the mattress. He rewarded her with the brush of his knuckles over her skin, one slipping between the folds of her cunt to press against her clit. She had to swallow twice before she was able to rasp out, “You have to do a lot of prep work for those sort of games, don’t you?”

“I don’t know if I would say ‘a lot’ but you do have to do some, yes.” He continued to work that single knuckle against her clit, moving in slow, deliberate circles, his gaze steady on her face, the tiniest of smiles flitting around the edges of his mouth. “Before you ask, yes, there are special toys. I don’t own any at that moment. They’re not the sort you reuse with a new partner.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “That makes… quite a bit of sense, actually.”

“If you’re interested, I can make a few purchases.” He uncurled his fingers, rotating his palm upward and slipping two into her cunt, chuckling when she squealed. “There’s a little shop in Winter Town that caters to our specific tastes. I can call in an order and pick it up, probably within two days or so.”

“That sounds—.” She sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes and chewing on her lower lip in an effort to ignore the faint stirrings of the orgasm she already felt building. Clearing her throat, she opened her eyes, not surprised to find Jon smirking at her. “That sounds lovely. Thank you very much, Daddy.”

“Such beautiful manners.” He began moving his fingers, not thrusting so much as a gentle roll, the rough callouses of his fingertips working over her g-spot. “I wonder if you’ll remember them when you’re taking my and Jamie Lannister’s cocks.” He began to grind his palm against her clit with each forward motion, his own breath hitching and shattering as she began to tremble, struggling to remain motionless. “Will you remember to tell Daddy ‘thank you’ for letting you play with your friend while he licks and sucks your pretty cunt?”

Sansa swallowed down the whine teasing the back of her throat, fisting her free hand in the sheets until her knuckles ached in protest. “Yes, Daddy.”

“And after you suck his cock and swallow his cum? Who are you going to say ‘thank you’ to, hmm?”

“You, Daddy.” The whine broke free, echoing through the room when he stilled his hand. She turned her face toward hers, their noses almost touching. “Daddy?”

“Shh, sweet girl, you didn’t say or do anything wrong.” He lifted his free hand, stroking a stray lock of hair back from her face. “I’m just… devotion is always precious, always a gift, and for you to give it so willingly… it’s humbling.” He leaned closer, brushing his lips over hers. “And beautiful. And I hope you know how much I value what you give to me.” He kissed her again, longer this time, until she went limp under him. Drawing back, he whispered, “Now, returning to the topic of your manners, Daddy would very much like for you to remember to use them while we’re playing with your friend. Do you understand me, sweet girl?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“However….” He threaded his fingers through her hair, clenching them into a loose fist, laughing again when she moaned. “I’m your only Daddy.”

“Yes.” Sansa untangled her hand from the sheets, lifting her arm and draping it over his shoulders. “You’re the only Daddy I want.”

“Good girl.” He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Good girls deserve rewards.” He continued sliding down her torso, his exhalations raising goosebumps on her skin. “And I think I know the perfect reward for my good girl.”


	21. An (Un)Expected Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New acquaintances are made and new friendships developed.
> 
> (Warning: Not really explicit content but it's right on the edge)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it, y'all. I did it.
> 
> By which I mean I posted two chapters in one week and this one is like, close to 4K. Maybe a little over. I'm not sure. But I digress.
> 
> I'll be adjusting the tags shortly to reflect a new... relationship, if you will. It's quite possible it's not your cup of tea and if this fic was operating strictly within the lines of show/book canon, I would agree. However, this is an AU so there's some wiggle room here. Still, if it squicks you out, I understand.
> 
> Smut returns in the next chapter and it will be EPICALLY long. At least for me. So buckle up, lovelies. It's going to be a wild weekend. Happy reading!

Later that week, Sansa stood in the main fitting room of The Cottage, the premiere dress shop of Winter Town—and most of the North, truth be told—looking over the sketches Ros had worked up for potential dresses for herself, Arya, and Meera when the curtain was suddenly flung open. A woman barely taller than Arya and inches shorter than Sansa, her white blonde hair drawn back in a series of complicated braids, frowned and narrowed her eyes. “I need this room.”

“That’s a pity, as I’m currently using it and will be for quite a bit longer.” Sansa lowered herself to perch on the edge of the nearest chair, legs pressed together from knee to ankle, her spine as straight as a steel beam. She stared at the other woman for exactly five seconds before returning her attention to the sketches in her lap, her hands steady despite the knots in her stomach. “Close the curtain on your way out, please.”

“I need this room.” The other woman clutched the curtain tighter and out of the corner of her eye Sansa watched as delicate color flooded her cheeks, turning her from a pale statute into something filled with fire. “Now.”

“No.” Sansa didn’t look up from the first of the sketches Ros had created for Sansa herself, making notes in the margins. The proposed dress had a distinct Dornish flair, with an off the shoulder, deep neckline, cap sleeves, and a loose, airy feel. It would work for any of the events leading up to Bran and Meera’s wedding but not for the sort of affair Sansa was planning for Restaurant Week. After a few minutes, she shifted her gaze to the woman and the still open curtain. “There doesn’t appear to be a language barrier so I’m unclear as to why you can’t follow simple instructions or why you couldn’t follow common social niceties in the first place.” Sansa lifted her voice, projecting from her diaphragm. “Ros? You have a client who appears to be lost.”

The designer seemed to appear out of thin air, her auburn hair bundled in a messy bun on the top of her head, her hands fluttering like butterflies as she flitted around the other woman. “Ms. Targaryen, please, I told you this room was occupied. There’s another room this way—.”

“But I want this one.” She stomped her foot and Sansa blinked, arching her brows in surprise. She’d recognized the name and while she would have preferred to meet her opponent under different circumstances she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to study her in action. Daenerys stomped her foot again, glancing over her shoulder toward the front of the store. “Jorah! Jorah, I need you!”

A man, a decade or so older than Daenerys instantly appeared at her side, nudging Ros out of the way, stroking and murmuring soothing nonsense in low, dulcet tones. “Kahleesi, be calm, please. This is all a simple misunderstanding. I’m sure this young woman wouldn’t mind—.”

“Excuse you, but I do mind giving up my fitting room and I will not be doing so. Furthermore, I mind having my privacy invaded by a pair of strangers who appear to possess less class and manners than a stray dog.” Sansa shifted her gaze to Ros, watching the scene play out with her jaw hanging open. “I understand you’re in a difficult position but I really must insist you remove them from my fitting room. I should be ready to discuss the sketches you’ve done for my dresses in five minutes or so.”

“Of course, Ms. Stark.” Ros squared her shoulders, taking Daenerys’s elbow with one hand and drawing her away, the smaller woman not releasing the curtain until the last possible second, the man trailing behind her. The curtain didn’t fall fully back into place but it was better than allowing any passerby on the street the opportunity to see Sansa in her underwear.

Sansa made a final note on the top sketch before shuffling it to the bottom of the pile, studying the second design for a handful of seconds before rejecting it completely. It reminded her too much of Margaery—the color, the structure, the strategic peek-a-boo cutaways. It was very much something Margaery would have worn to a sorority formal or for a literary evening at her beloved grandmother’s house. Highgarden and the Reach weren’t the South, not really, but they also weren’t the North and while Sansa had no intention of limiting her sartorial choices in such a manner she also had no intention of paying any sort of homage to the people who had done their best to break her.

She moved the sketch to the bottom, blinking in surprise at the third potential dress and simply staring. She was still staring when Ros entered the room, pulling the curtain completely closed behind her. “Oh, Ms. Stark, I’m so sorry. I really did explain to her—.”

“It’s fine, Ros. Something tells me Ms. Targaryen hasn’t been told ‘no’ very often and as a result reacts poorly when she’s denied.” Sansa balanced the papers on her knee and reached for the cup of tea she’d poured seconds before Daenerys Targaryen burst into the room. Taking a small sip, she hummed appreciatively under her breath before clearing her throat. “So I’ve looked over the sketches and narrowed down the ones for Arya and Meera. I think it’ll be easier for all of us if I handle this particular step myself—you know how Arya tends to be about things like this.”

“I may or may not have nightmares about the last time your sister was in here for a fitting.” Ros settled herself in the other free chair, offering Sansa a wan smile. “Hopefully she’ll be less… active this time.”

“Yes, hopefully.” Sansa tapped a fingernail on the top page, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Now, this design—.”

“Oh, Ms. Stark, I don’t know how that one got mixed in with your materials but—.”

“I have a few questions about the undergarments which I’d need and I’d like to see about some alternations—nothing too drastic, nothing which would change the overall feel of the dress—and of course there’s the issue of the color and material….” Sansa trailed off, tapping the sketch again. “But this is it. This is my dress for the gala.” She glanced up at Ros. “Unless you’ve promised it to someone else already, which would break my heart and force us to continue looking.”

“No, it’s not. It was something I was working on in my spare time for the collection I’m hoping to put together.” Ros pulled the ever present pencil from behind her ear and held out her free hand. “If I may…?” She took the sketch from Sansa, her pencil posed over the paper. “What type of alterations did you have in mind?”

“I’d like to open up the back, down to the waist. I’m assuming we can adjust the bias and the godet so as to keep the structured look of the bodice while still allowing movement in the skirt.” Sansa sipped her tea again, trying to see the finished dress in her mind’s eye. “And I’d like to lengthen the train, increase the drama, so to speak.”

“Yes, I do, and you have the height for it.” Ros scrubbed the eraser of the page before flipping the pencil, sketching in quick, sure lines for a moment before tilting it toward Sansa. “Like this?”

“Yes, exactly.” Sansa smiled, some of the tension in her shoulders and spine slipping away. “Now, I think the obvious choice for material is silk.”

“I have a lovely blue grey which just came in—I specifically set it aside for you, knowing your preference for the color.”

“Oh, that’s amazing.” Sansa shifted in her seat, reaching over and squeezing Ros’s knee. “That’ll look amazing with this design.”

“If I could offer another suggestion.” Ros waited until Sansa nodded before continuing. “I know your family has always had a special connection with the godswood and the wierwood trees there. I have a beautiful silk thread the exact shade as the wierwood leaves. I could embroider the back hem and up the godet, mimicking the wierwood leaves.”

“Ros. That’s brilliant.” Sansa set her tea on the side table and stood, moving to the center of the room and stepping on the small dais. “You have my measurements already but I’m assuming you’ll need additional ones given the alterations we’re making to the back.”

“Yes, of course.” Ros hurried over to stand behind her, her gaze dropping to the scars crisscrossing Sansa’s skin before lifting to meet Sansa’s gaze in the mirror. “Open to the waist? No lace or tulle overlay?”

“No.” Sansa squared her shoulders. “I’m not hiding anything anymore.”

*****************************************

An hour later, Sansa stepped out of the fitting room, fully clothed, drawing up short when she all but walked directly into Daenerys Targaryen. She almost took a step back but thought better of it, instead clasping her hands at her waist and cocking her head. “Was there something I could do for you, Ms. Targaryen?”

“Ms. Stark—as in Sansa Stark, one of the owners and the general manager of Winterfell, the lead restaurant of House Stark and one of, if not the, most esteemed restaurants in all of Westeros?” Daenerys offered a brilliant smile, one Sansa would have found charming if she hadn’t witnessed her earlier meltdown and temper tantrum. “You’re as lovely as people have said.”

“Thank you.” Sansa studied her, noting her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, bordering on purple. “If you’ll excuse me—.”

“I’ve been trying to set up a meeting with you about the possibility of merging our companies but your lawyers seem to think you’re not interested.” Daenerys continued to smile, although it became a few degrees sharper. “Why is that?”

“Because I’m not interested.” Over the shorter woman’s shoulder, she saw Jon enter the store and glance around for a moment before zeroing in on her. “The North—and Winterfell—have always been independent. On the occasions where we weren’t, things have gone poorly, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty understanding our desire to keep to ourselves.” Sansa shifted to move around her, biting back an exasperated sigh when Daenerys moved with her. “Ms. Targaryen, please. I have quite a full day.”

“And I’m going to bet you didn’t think to schedule lunch at any point so it’s a good thing I picked up something on my way here.” Jon slid around Daenerys, draping one arm across Sansa’s shoulders and giving her an absent-minded kiss on the cheek before turning his attention to the other woman. “Ms. Targaryen. Your reputation precedes you.”

“And so does yours, Jon Snow.” Daenerys offered her hand and a sickly sweet smile, fluttering her lashes in a coquettish fashion. “That is who you are, yes, the young and talented head chef of Winterfell? Rumor has it you never see of one you without the other these days.”

“Rumors are funny things.” Jon took her hand and returned her smile and Sansa had to tamp down a sudden surge of annoyance—or was it jealousy?—at the way the other woman giggled and flushed under Jon’s attention. “After all, rumor has it you’re trying to take over the entire restaurant industry of Westeros. But nobody is that ambitious. Or ridiculous. Because everybody knows the North is independent.”

“Yes. Well.” Daenerys’s smile faded some and she withdrew her hand, fiddling with the fringe dangling from her sleeve. “That’s something we can discuss at a later time. I’ll have my lawyers reach out to yours again. We’ll see about sitting down together, casually, and have a conversation about merging companies.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Sansa pulled away from Jon, stalking out of the store, the thud of her heels dulled by the thick pile of the carpet. She didn’t stop walking until she was halfway back to where Jon had parked his car and only then because Jon caught up with her and grabbed her elbow, forcing her to stop. She sucked in a deep breath, exhaling through clenched teeth. “Before you say anything, I know I was rude.”

“Compared to how you normally react to annoying individuals, yes. Compared to your siblings? Not even close.” Jon stroked his hand up and down her arm, his gaze steady on her face. “I am curious, though, at such a strong reaction. After all, she’s far from the first to try and take Winterfell.”

“She’s rude and entitled.”

“So are a number of people in the industry and yet you don’t bite their head off.”

“They also don’t fawn over you like some lovestruck teenager.” Sansa snapped out the retort before she could help herself, biting back a curse when Jon lifted his brows. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, exhaling it with a huff. “I didn’t like it, okay? I know it’s stupid and I don’t have a right to feel that way, especially considering Jamie but—.”

“First, you always have a right to your feelings, even if you think they’re silly or stupid, which they weren’t, by the way.” Jon leaned in and brushed a soft kiss over the tip of her nose. “Second, the two situations aren’t the same. Jamie, for all his flirtation, isn’t disrespectful of our relationship. That can’t be said for Daenerys Targaryen.”

“She also tried to steal my fitting room.” Sansa crossed her arms, not quite able to keep her lower lip from pushing out in the slightest of pouts. “There I am, in nothing but my underwear, arguing with this woman about why she can’t have my fitting room while some man who clearly adores her more than Tormund adores Brienne does his best to calm her down.”

“Nothing but your underwear, hmm?” Jon wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him and pressing another kiss to the spot where her jaw curved into her ear, chuckling when she shivered. “And she was still able to carry on a conversation? How wasn’t she in absolute awe of your beauty?”

“Flatterer.” Sansa sighed and leaned against him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “She just pushed all my buttons. I don’t even know why. She just did.”

“This will come as a shock to you, I know, but you’re allowed to dislike people for no reason at all.” Jon shrugged. “I know this because I dislike a number of people, almost all of them for no reason—or at least no good one.”

“Still.” She sighed again but otherwise said nothing. After a moment, she drew back and studied his face. “You mentioned something about lunch?”

“So I did. I figured we could have a busman’s holiday with some fast food and talk about our potential plans for the weekend, seeing as it’s Saturday night and we have the next couple of days off.” Jon tucked her against his side, steering her down the sidewalk. “And since you’ve been a very good girl this week, I thought you’d earned an extra special reward.”

Sansa stopped walking and turned to face him again, her breath catching in her throat at the look in his eyes. “Like?”

Jon’s lips curved in a slow, slow smile.

****************************************

“Come in.” Sansa glanced up as the door opened, her stomach doing a quick, hard flip as Jamie stepped into her office. “Hey.”

“Jon asked me to handle the shift breakdown this evening. He said he had an errand to run.” Jamie rested his hand on the doorknob, swinging the door back and forth. “Open or…?”

“You can shut it, it’s fine.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt and hoping he wouldn’t notice the shakiness in her hands. “Would you care for a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind a scotch, if you have any.” He ambled—prowled—around the room like a caged lion, although the looks he sent Sansa out of the corner of his eye made her fell less like prey and more like the predator herself. He smiled and took the glass she offered him, nodding his chin toward the second glass she held. “You didn’t strike me as the type of woman who drank scotch.”

“Really?” She took a minute sip, welcoming the faint burn. “I didn’t think you gave me or my drinking preferences too much thought.”

“You’d be surprised the things I think about you.” His smile softened, turning just a little sly, a little considering. “Then again, maybe you wouldn’t.”

“Hmm.” She gestured toward the sitting area, waiting until he’d settled on the sofa before taking the seat next to him, making sure to keep a few crucial inches between them. _Don’t be too obvious—at least not at first._ “So, how are you finding the kitchen at Winterfell?”

“Far less stressful than any of the ones owned by the Lannisters, that’s for certain.” Jamie stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles, the toe of his shoe just brushing the side of her foot. “Even at the height of the second round of covers there’s this aura of… serenity, almost.” He took another sip of scotch. “It probably has something to do with the fact both you and Jon actually know what you’re doing and you’re not above jumping in and getting your hands dirty when it’s necessary.”

“My father always believed if you were going to run a restaurant you needed to have at least the most basic of skills in every area.” She leaned her torso back but kept her position on the edge of the sofa, pretending not to notice the way his gaze shifted to the curve of her breasts for a split second before returning to her face. “And nothing will humble you faster than having someone who used to change your diapers yell at you for not plating an entrée correctly.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He sighed and sent her a lazy smile. “Anyway, to return to the original topic, you have a good kitchen. Good staff.” He winked. “Better with me here, of course, but still good.”

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes and sipped her drink, lifting her free arm and draping it across the back of the sofa, her fingertips not quite brushing the edge of his shoulder. “Any issues tonight we need to discuss?”

“You have a couple of food runners who are a little on the slow side but they’re also new. I’m sure they’ll be up to Stark standards before Restaurant Week.” He finished his scotch, leaning forward and setting his glass on the coffee table, his chest brushing her knee, his breath whispering over her calf. “Other than that, I can’t think of anything. Any complaints about quality or presentation?”

“Not one.” She waited for him to lean back, her breath hitching ever so slightly when he did but almost immediately shifted closer to her, still an appropriate few inches away but almost not. She took another sip, long and slow, never breaking eye contact. When the glass was empty, she handed it to him. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Another lean forward and back, the motion this time bringing his body almost flush against hers. There was no way this could be termed a friendly conversation between coworkers, not with the way his gaze seemed attached to her lips or the way her hand rested on his knee. The silence settled between them for long moments before he cleared his throat, his voice low, almost raspy when he spoke. “Anything else I can do for you this evening?”

“Jon and I drove in together so him leaving early means I don’t have a way home.” She half turned toward him, the motion causing the curve of her breast to brush against his upper arm. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, worrying the corner of her mouth with the tip, studying his face. “Do you mind?”

Jamie swallowed. “Not at all.”

*********************************

Neither of them spoke during the drive, the air thick and heavy with anticipation. Sansa made it a point to keep her hands to herself although they were far from idle, playing with her hair or the hem of her skirt, fiddling with her necklace in a way designed to draw his attention to the neckline of her blouse, gaping open slightly from where she’d unfastened the top two buttons. When they reached Jon’s building and the underground garage, rather than tell Jamie the code she unbuckled her seatbelt and stretched over him, all but laying in his lap as she punched in the four digit code. She didn’t return to her seat until the gate lifted completely and when she did she made no effort to pull her skirt down. 

Jamie parked the car and killed the engine, pulling the keys from the ignition and pocketing them before clearing his throat. “I suppose you’d like for me to walk you up.”

She smiled. “Do you mind?”

Rather than answer, he opened his door and got it, shutting it before rounding the car and opening her door, offering her his hand. He pulled her up and out of the car so quickly she couldn’t help but stumble into him, one hand lifting to his shoulder in an effort to steady herself. She sucked in a quick breath, her exhale low and shuddery. “Do you? Mind?”

“Not at all.” He let go of her hand, stepping back slightly only to fall into step next to her as she headed toward the elevator, his hand resting in the small of her back. They waited in silence for the elevator, Jamie ushering her in when the doors slid open. The ride to the fifth floor was equally silent, so silent Sansa would have sworn she could hear the beat of her heart echoing in the small space. The doors slid open again and they exited the elevator, his hand still nestled in the hollow directly above her ass.

“This is it.” She came to a stop in front of Jon’s door and knocked three times—the signal they’d agreed would be the sign she wasn’t alone. She leaned against Jamie, tipping her head back and resting it on his shoulder, looking up at him from under her lashes. “Would you like to come in for another drink?”

“I would.” Jamie half turned his face to hers, his lips just brushing her temple. “But I don’t know how your… friend would feel about it.”

The door opened and Jon leaned against the frame, studying them. After a moment, he said, “Are you going to be a good girl and invite your… friend in for a drink?”

“She did—invite me in, that is.” Jamie’s voice dropped lower, the deep timbre drumming up a low thrum in Sansa’s blood. “Rest assured, she’s been a good girl.”

“Good.” Jon cocked his head. “Well? Do you want to join us?”

“Yes.” Jamie nudged Sansa forward into the apartment, following behind her, waiting until Jon shut and locked the door before grabbing the back of her shirt and spinning her around to face him.

Even with her heels he was still inches taller than her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jon watching them, his eyes dark, his loose grey sweatpants doing little to hide the evidence of his arousal. She gave Jamie her full attention when he pulled her tight against him, unable to contain a gasp when she felt the hard length of his cock against her thigh.

“So, Red—or should I call you ‘good girl’?” Jamie leaned forward, scraping his teeth over her jaw line and she shuddered. “What kind of games do you and your… friend like to play?”

“Oh, Daddy plays all sorts of games with his sweet girl.” Jon crossed his arms but made no move to join them. “Including letting her play with… friends now and then.”

Sansa swallowed. “Do you want to be my friend, Jamie?”

Jamie’s smile was quick and brilliant and just a little cruel. “Oh, absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's gala dress is the child of a torrid affair between Keira Knightly's green dress in Atonement and Show Sansa's coronation dress in the series finale.


	22. A Glass of Port

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A playdate with a friend.
> 
> (Warning: Explicit material)
> 
> (Seriously, folks--it's EXPLICIT)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, depression. It's a bitch. I trust I don't need to say anything else.
> 
> Moving on from that cheerful opener--I brought you guys a present! A whole chapter of smut! Like, absolute filth. Like, I couldn't write this any public because every time I tried, I was certain somebody was going to catch a glimpse over my shoulder, clutch their pearls, and keel over in shock. And there's a lot of it--close to 6K of pure smutty smut smut filth. Hopefully you get the picture.
> 
> Having said that, there is... wow, let me see. There's M/F, M/M, M/F/M, there's some light BDSM, there's some Daddy Dom, there's some praise kink... I think that's everything, but honestly, I could be wrong. The point remains, however--this is not for the faint of heart. Having said THAT, while this is a new dynamic in their sexual play, this will not lead to a new emotional dynamic. I have no problems with throuples but I don't think these are the right characters for that particular relationship configuration.
> 
> I'd like to tell you I know when absolute certainty when I'll be posting again but I'll refer you to my opening statement. We're all just doing the best we can and well, this is the best I can do at the moment.
> 
> Anyway--happy reading!

“There are, of course, rules.” Jon leaned back fully against the wall, his voice dropping lower. “I would be remiss in my responsibilities if I let my sweet girl play with her friends without instituting some rules.”

“Of course.” Jamie pulled Sansa’s shirt free from the waistband of her skirt, sliding his hand underneath the crisp cotton, pressing his palm to the small of her back, his fingertips just barely brushing the lace band of her bra. “And these rules are…?”

“While our sweet girl prefers—and occasionally requires—something of a firm hand, if there should be a need for punishment, it will be administered by me. With the type of play our sweet girl prefers, bruises and other marks are inevitable but none of them should be in obvious, visible places.” Jon pushed off the wall, meandering toward them, and Sansa fought back a shiver at the sly, predatory nature of his walk. “She has an adventurous soul but if things become too intense… what’s your safeword, sweet girl?”

Sansa had to swallow twice before she was able to whisper, “Lemoncakes.”

“I seem to remember you having an inordinate fondness for that particular sweet.” Jamie nipped her earlobe and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes. “Any other rules?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption you’d like for her to address you with respect.” Jon waited until Jamie nodded before continuing. “ ‘Sir’ will have to suffice.” Jon suddenly sank his fist into Sansa’s hair, pulling her head back and turning her face toward his, crushing his mouth against hers for a split second before breaking the kiss. “There’s only one Daddy.”

“I see.” Jamie’s voice was thin, tight, and out of the corner of her eye Sansa watched him swallow hard, the sound of the motion almost painful. “Any other rules?”

“No.” Jon stepped back, sliding his hand free of her hair, the sudden loss causing her to stagger into Jamie. “No, I believe that’s all.” He nodded toward the hall. “Bedroom is this way.” He paused, arching a brow. “Unless, of course, you’d care for a drink first.”

“No.” Jamie stepped back, turning and steering Sansa the direction Jon indicated. “No, I think I’m ready for a little play time.”

Sansa half walked, half stumbled toward the bedroom, nerves and anticipation weakening her knees and stealing her coordination. As soon as they entered the bedroom, she broke away from Jamie, bracing one hand against the wall as she toed off one shoe and then the other. Looking up at the two men from under her lashes, she said, “Sorry. I’m not sure I’m going to be steady on my feet for too much longer.”

“You little flatterer, you.” Jamie unbuttoned his shirt slowly, the freeing of each button revealing another inch of dark golden skin, dusted with the faintest layer of pale gold hair. When the last button slipped loose he shrugged out of the shirt, letting it fall to the carpet behind him. He paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sliding his right arm behind his back. For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked unsure… vulnerable. “You haven’t seen what’s left of me. My injury, I mean.”

“No.” She shook her head, shrugging out of her own shirt and then her bra as Jon settled himself in the overstuffed armchair next to the bureau. They’d agreed, the two of them, that he would only watch this first time, unless circumstances dictated otherwise. “Then again, you haven’t seen what they did to me.”

“Seven hells.” Jamie took a step forward, stretching his hand out, freezing when his fingertips were a breath away. “May I… I mean, are you comfortable with being touched?”

“Yes.” And it spoke to who he was, truly, that he would think to ask even when she was standing half dressed in front of half, negotiating terms of a sexual encounter. “They don’t hurt anymore.”

“Still.” He used a single finger to trace the line of a particularly long scar, one which curved over her shoulder and down her torso, almost seeming to cup her breast in a mockery of an embrace. He shifted his gaze to Jon, still sitting silent in the corner. “I’ll assume you have some sort of plan in mind to make them suffer and pay.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny.” Jon’s lips curved in a smile which was far from friendly. “But you can be assured they’ll pay reparations for their behavior.”

“Good.” Jamie returned his gaze to Sansa, sliding his hand upward, curling his fingertips around her throat—not squeezing, simply pressing. “This is good?”

“Yes, Sir.” She flicked her tongue over her lips. “Would you kiss me, please?”

“Yes.” Bending down, he took her mouth in a kiss so whisper soft she would have believed it was only her imagination if she wasn’t watching him. She gripped his right shoulder for support, ignoring the quick stiffening of his muscles, using him as an anchor as she deepened the kiss. After long minutes, he drew back, his breathing shallow. “I’ve never kissed anyone other than… her.”

She didn’t ask who he meant by ‘her’—those particular rumors had circulated even more her arrival at Red Keep and they’d only abated after Jamie’s accident. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine it’s just… different. In a good way.” He shifted closer, kissing her again, his hand slipping from her throat to fist in her hair. It was difficult to say whether it was the sudden hint of violence or the feel of his skin against hers, the fine, golden hair dusting his chest tickling her sensitive breasts and nipples, which pulled the shocked gasp from her but either way he swallowed the sound like wine, humming low in his throat. Breaking the kiss, he whispered, “I think it’s time to get you out of the rest of these clothes.”

“Yes.” Not that there was much left. Still, she reached behind her, unzipping the skirt with shaky hands, pushing it down her hips to pool on the floor at her feet even as he knelt in front of her. She crossed her hands, shielding her cunt, even though she wasn’t the least bit shy. It was still a game, after all, even if the players and rules were somewhat different. “Don’t tell Daddy I wasn’t wearing any underwear.”

“It’ll be our secret.” Jamie curved his hand around her hip, his fingers splaying in the small of her back, pulling her closer. He nipped at the tips of her fingers, chuckling when she yelped only to drop a quick kiss on each pseudoinjury. “But I think I deserve something for not telling him what a bad girl you are.”

“Like a reward?” She let one hand drop to his shoulder, tracing his lower lip with the fingers of the other. “That makes sense. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, just a kiss.” He nipped at her fingers again and she obliged him by moving her hand to his other shoulder, leaving herself bare to his gaze. He gave a long, appreciative sigh, the sound rolling through her body and seeming to liquify her bones. “That’s all.”

“Just a kiss.” Not trusting her legs to hold her up, she took a step back, lowering herself to the edge of the mattress. He moved with her, his soft exhalations a tease against her sensitive skin as he used his shoulders to spread her thighs open wide. Gripping the seam of the mattress in both hands, she said, “You should know, sometimes I get really… I mean, it can get a little….”

“What my sweet girl is too prim and proper and shy to say out loud is if you eat her cunt correctly, she’ll squirt all over your face.” Jon’s comment was casual, almost off-hand, and Sansa glanced over her shoulder to find he’d slipped a hand under the waistband of his pants, giving his cock a single stroke even as she watched. He flicked a quick glance at her before returning his attention to Jamie. “And when you make her cum enough, which we definitely will by the end of the night, she gets endorphin drunk, which is adorably arousing.”

“Oh, isn’t that lovely.” Jamie settled himself more firmly between her thighs, sliding his hand down to her knee and lifting it, his grip almost painful as he pressed her against the mattress, the change in position leaving her wide open to his gaze. “Very, very lovely.”

And then his mouth was on her cunt, his tongue slipping between her lips in a brutally intimate kiss.

She fought the urge to arch her hips toward him, wanting him to set the pace, to learn his technique, his methods. When he swirled his tongue over her clit, sucking at the same time, she had to close her eyes, suck in a deep breath and hold it for a moment, her exhale long and shuddery. Before she could draw in another breath, a hand grabbed the nape of her neck, squeezing tight.

“You’re holding back. Both of you.” Jon’s voice was low and harsh in her ear and when she shuddered this time it was because of him, because of the press of his chest against her back, his muscles coiled tight as he fought for control. “Don’t make me stop playtime to punish you.”

Sansa’s high-pitched whimper was overshadowed by Jamie’s groan, the low vibrations through Sansa’s cunt and pulling another gasp from her. Behind her, Jon chuckled, the sound almost mean. “I expected that reaction from my good girl. I would have been disappointed if I hadn’t received it. But you, Jamie?” He laughed again. “Oh, that makes things so much more interesting.”

The bed shifted under Sansa and a moment later Jamie gasped, only to immediately resume his oral attentions. Sansa opened her eyes the tiniest of slivers, looking down under her lashes, biting back a moan when she saw Jon’s hand fisted in Jamie’s hair in much the same way he held her hair. As if he knew she was watching, Jon jerked her head back, sinking his teeth into her earlobe. “Eyes open all the way. Watch Daddy play with your new friend.”

Sansa opened her eyes, watching as Jon slipped off the bed and down to the floor, kneeling behind Jamie, one hand still firmly clutching his hair. With his other, he unbuckled the older man’s belt and flipped open the button of his pants before tugging down the zipper. He eased his hand under the loosened material, his ruddy skin a marked contrast to Jamie’s goldenness. Jamie gasped and then choked back a whimper and Sansa knew Jon had wrapped those calloused fingers around his cock. Jon pushed Jamie’s head more firmly against Sansa’s cunt, his voice even lower, almost a growl, when he spoke. “Do a good job and you’ll get a reward.”

Jamie sucked harder, slipping two fingers in her cunt, and Sansa nearly doubled over as the pleasure shot through her, tightening her stomach into almost painful knots. Jon released Jamie’s hair, stretching forward and grabbing Sansa’s chin. “No cumming, sweet girl. Not yet.”

“But Daddy—.”

“And no whining or we’ll have to interrupt playtime with a spanking.”

Even knowing she was pushing things, she couldn’t help herself. “Daddy—.”

“I see my sweet girl wants to be a brat tonight. That’s fine.” Jon shoved her away, the violence in the gesture carefully controlled, before reaching down and grabbing Jamie’s hair, pulling him away from Sansa. He stood, sliding his hand out of Jamie’s pants, ignoring the other man’s moan of disappointment. “Face down on the bed. Jamie, would you be so kind as to hold her hands?”

Jamie crawled up on the bed next to Sansa, wiggling out of his pants and underwear before kneeling at the head of the bed. “Yes, Sir.”

“Fuck.” Jon pushed his sweatpants off his hips, kicking them away before climbing up on the bed and rolling Sansa to her stomach, clucking his tongue in approval when she moved into position. “If I’d known… fuck.” He slipped a hand under her hips, canting them the tiniest bit higher even as Jamie wrapped his fingers around her wrists and pressed them against the mattress. “Twenty, I think. With the belt.”

“But—.”

“Another word and we’ll make it twenty-five.” Jon stretched until he was able to reach the bedside table, opening the drawer and taking out the worn leather belt before closing the drawer again. “You remember what I expect, don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy.” She curled her fingers into her palms and closed her eyes, her entire body trembling in anticipation. Before she could take a deep breath, he brought the belt down across her ass and she swallowed down a yelp. “One.”

After five, Jamie was shaking as much as she was. Opening her eyes, she tilted her head up, the long, hard length of his cock filling her view. When Jon gave her a light swat, she said, “Thank you, Daddy.”

“I’m going to give you a choice.” Jon stroked his hand over her back before streaking up and grabbing her hair in a makeshift ponytail, tugging her head back. “Either you can continue counting. Or Jamie can count for you while you apologize to him for interrupting playtime.”

“I want to apologize.” Sansa strained against Jon’s grip, struggling to reach Jamie’s cock. “Please let me apologize, Daddy.”

“You need to ask your friend if you can apologize to him.” Jon curved himself over her back, pressing his lips against her ear even though he kept his voice the same volume. “Use those pretty manners Daddy is so fond of, sweet girl.”

“Sir, please let me apologize to you for interrupting playtime.” She leaned forward as much as Jon would allow, brushing her lips over Jamie’s knuckles where he continued to hold her hands in place. “Please, Sir, please, please—.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Jamie released her hands at the same moment as Jon released her hair and she pushed up, one hand clutching the sheets, the other gripping Jamie’s hip. Leaning forward, she flicked her tongue over her lips before sucking the head of Jamie’s cock into her mouth, her hair spilling over his thighs. Above her, he gasped and choked out, “Oh, God.”

“Now, while she’s apologizing to you, you’re responsible for counting out the reminder of her punishment.” Jon’s voice was deeper, tighter, his cock hard against her ass. There was movement above her and Sansa shifted her gaze up, forgetting to breath for a moment at the sight of Jon gripping Jamie’s chin as he’d done to her earlier. The older man’s eyes were huge, his mouth trembling with each shuddery breath, and as she watched Jon pressed his thumb to Jamie’s lower lip, both of them groaning when Jamie played his tongue over the tip of the digit. “If you slip up, you’ll be the one apologizing to me. And I think you know exactly what that entails.”

“Yes, Sir.” Jamie anchored his hand in Sansa’s hair, massaging her scalp, the motion delicate despite the hardened callouses on his fingertips. “Whenever you’re ready, Sir.”

Jon moved back, cool air rushing to fill the space where he’d been, and Sansa turned her attention back to the cock in her mouth. The slap of the belt against her ass caused her to swallow reflexively and Jamie whimpered before clearing his throat, croaking out, “Six.”

By the tenth stroke, when Jamie panted out his thank you, Sansa had taken almost the entire length of his cock into her mouth, the head just nudging the back on her throat. Fluid—his precum, her spit—coated her lips, threatening to spill down her chin. In some distant part of her mind, she was aware of the stinging of her ass, the wetness coating her inner thighs, the almost painful tightness of her nipples when they brushed against the sheets. Jon paused, massaging one cheek and then the other, before saying, “I know we discussed what to do if, during breath play, you need a moment. While sucking cock isn’t quite the same as having my hand around your throat, the instruction still stands. If the spanking is too much, snap your fingers twice. Do you understand?”

She tapped Jamie’s hip twice and he loosened his grip on her hair, allowing her to pull back, his cock slipping free from her mouth. Swallowing once, she rasped out, “Yes, Daddy.”

Jon smacked the belt against her ass lightly, not an actual spank. “Show me you understand.” She wiped her hand on the sheets before snapping her fingers twice and Jon squeezed her ass in approval. “Good girl. And Jamie….” He paused, the air seeming to thicken before he spoke again. “Good boy.”

Jamie groaned and Sansa opened her mouth as he flexed his hips forward, thrusting his cock into her mouth, almost gagging when the head of his cock threatened to slip into her throat. He immediately pulled back the barest of half inches, combing his shaking fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—.”

“She understands. Don’t you, sweet girl?” Jon waited until Sansa nodded before continuing. “Sometimes good girls and good boys have a problem controlling their enthusiasm.” Jamie groaned again but Jon continued as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s why they have a Daddy to remind them of their manners.” Without warning, he brought the belt down again and both Sansa and Jamie whimpered. “What number was that, sweet boy?”

“Eleven.” Jamie swallowed. “Sir.”

By the fifteenth stroke, Sansa was crying silent tears, digging her nails into Jamie’s hip with each slap of the belt. In response, Jamie pushed his cock deeper with each count, his voice thin and high-pitched. Jon waited a beat after Jamie whimpered out his thanks and for a split second Sansa considered snapping her fingers. She felt as if the was the edge of her pain tolerance but at the same time it seemed as if she was on the precipice of something huge, something monumental, and she would only reach it if she saw this punishment through.

Jon brought the belt down and she whined, working her tongue over the underside of Jamie’s cock. Above her, he panted out, “Sixteen.”

“You’ve both been so good.” Jon delivered another blow, waiting for Jamie to count it before continuing. “And even though this is supposed to be a punishment—well, at least for my sweet girl—I think you’ve both earned a reward.” Another slap of the belt, another choked out count. “So after the last stroke, after you, sweet boy, tell me thank you, you’re both allowed to cum.” He brought the belt down and almost immediately leaned forward, once again pressing his lips to Sansa’s ear even as Jamie gasped out the number. “That’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? Why you took your punishment so sweetly, without so much as a whimper of protest? You’ve been waiting for Daddy to give you permission to cum.” He leaned back and Sansa heard him draw in a deep breath. “Last one.”

The leather cracked against Sansa’s ass. Jamie fisted his hand in her hair, thrusting his hips forward as he said, “Thank you, Sir.”

The first spurt of cum coated the back of her tongue.

And she fell off the precipice, pleasure seeming to explode through her and out of her, her entire body vibrating with sensation, each wave stronger and longer than the previous one.

Only when Jamie’s cum filled her mouth, threatening to spill down her chin, did she remember to swallow. She drew back, keeping the head of his cock tucked behind her lips, swirling her tongue over and around, paying special attention to the underside, coaxing out the rest of his release even as she attempted to ride out her own. She was vaguely aware of Jon massaging her ass, working out the ache from muscles held too tight for too long, but she couldn’t seem to process it, not with the orgasm continuing to overwhelm her, not with Jamie’s whines of pleasure ringing in her ears.

Finally, after long, long minutes, Jamie sat back on his heels, the motion causing his cock to slip free from her mouth. She would have fallen flat on her face if not for Jon’s hand against her stomach, keeping her suspended before unceremoniously flipping her to her back. Leaning down, he grabbed her chin, holding her in place while he ravished her mouth until her head threatened to spin from lack of oxygen. Drawing back, he brushed the hair from her forehead, studying her face before saying, “I need your mouth, sweet boy.”

Before Sansa had time to register what he’d said, Jamie was scrambling to the foot of the mattress while Jon sprawled out next to her. It was an effort but she rolled to her side, curling against him, her head on his shoulder, her lips pressed against the erratic pulse hammering in his throat. Even without looking, she knew the exact moment Jamie took his cock in his mouth. Jon’s eyelids fluttered, his lashes dark against his cheeks as he closed his eyes, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he swallowed down a moan.

Sansa bent her head, pressing another kiss to his collarbone, shifting her gaze down to watch Jamie. Instead of using his hand for balance, he used his elbows, allowing him to caress the base of Jon’s cock even as he moved his mouth back and forth in slow, even strokes. She slid further down, flicking her tongue over Jon’s nipple, vaguely aware of his hand in her hair, although he made no move as if to hold her in place. Jamie sucked harder, the sound loud to the point of lewdness in the otherwise quiet room, and Jon arched his hips, thrusting his cock deeper in the other man’s mouth. Where Sansa might have gagged, Jamie simply swallowed and adjusted the angle of his head, allowing Jon’s cock to slip down his throat until Jamie’s lips met his fingers.

“Seven hells. Fuck.” Now Jon did fist his hand in Sansa’s hair, coaxing a whimper from her. “When I say stop, you stop, sweet boy. I’ve plans for my cum tonight which don’t include anyone’s mouth.” Jamie’s only response was a low, muted whine, and Jon sighed, reaching down with his other hand and grabbing Jamie’s hair, not pulling him from his cock but ensuring he was unable to move. “Eyes on Daddy.” When Jamie opened his eyes, revealing pupils dilated so wide only the thinnest rim of golden iris remained, Sansa shifted until she was able to press her cunt against Jon’s hip, needing the pressure, even though it did almost nothing to satisfy the ache. “Squeeze Daddy’s cock once if you understand.” It was Sansa’s turn to whine when Jamie followed Jon’s instructions and Jon bit out, “Fuck. That’s a good boy.”

Jon tugged on Sansa’s hair, forcing her upward, and he took her mouth again, fiercely, almost brutally, the arching of his hip as he thrust his cock into Jamie’s mouth teasing her cunt. She ground against him shamelessly, desperate for even the tiniest of releases, whimpering into the kiss. Yanking her head back, breaking the kiss, he growled, “Don’t you dare, sweet girl. Don’t you fucking —.” He broke off, surging to a sitting position even as he dragged Jamie’s head back, forcing him off his cock, the long, thick shaft sliding free from the other man’s mouth. He didn’t give him time to recover, instead using his grip on his hair to pull him up, until Jamie was on his knees, face to face with Jon, their cocks pressed together between their stomachs. Jon took his mouth with the same harshness he’d shown Sansa, all but devouring him, while she watched, her lips parted, each breath a shuddery exhale. When the older man was whining, bucking his hips, his cock leaving slippery trails of precum on Jon’s stomach, Jon broke the kiss, panting. “Good boy.”

“Daddy.” Sansa had to swallow once, twice, before her voice lost its raspy quality. Jon loosened his grip on her hair the tiniest bit and she straightened until she was eye level with both men. She kissed Jamie’s cheek and then Jon’s before resting her forehead against his temple. “I want to play, too.”

“I know, sweet girl.” He slid his hand down to cup the nape of her neck, massaging gently. “Now, do you still want to play with both of us?”

“Yes.” She shifted, wrapping her arms around Jamie’s torso and squeezing tight, resting her chin on his shoulder and staring at Jon through a curtain of tangled hair. “Please, Daddy? You promised.”

“I did.” He leaned forward, kissing her, sighing into her mouth. “But part of my responsibility as Daddy is checking in with you, with both of you, and making sure you’re in the proper headspace to continue.” He kissed Jamie again, softer this time, and Sansa couldn’t say why it was so arousing but the simple gesture had her breath catching in her throat and she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at the tender and bruised flesh. “Since you’re still able to answer questions in a coherent fashion, I’ll assume you’re still capable of making informed decisions.” He cupped Jamie’s chin, stroking a thumb over the other man’s lower lip. “And what about you? Where’s your head right now?”

“I’m good.” Jamie blinked once, twice, a drunken sort of smile spreading across his face. “I just… haven’t been with anyone in a very long time and it’s been even longer since I was with someone who played these type of games.” He turned his face toward Sansa, nuzzling his nose against hers, swaying a little in her embrace. “I want to keep playing.”

“On your back then.” Jon shifted to the far side of the mattress, pulling Sansa with him, slipping one hand between her thighs as Jamie turned, sprawling on his back. He murmured low in his throat, dragging his teeth down her jaw as he played his fingers over the folds of her cunt. “You’re so wet for me, sweet girl.” He reached over and wrapped his fingers around Jamie’s cock, stroking slowly, nipping at the spot behind Sansa’s ear. “And you’re so hard, sweet boy.” He flicked his tongue over her earlobe, chuckling when she whimpered. “Now, be a good girl and play nice with your friend.”

Sansa scrambled away from him and over to Jamie, swinging one leg over his torso and straddling his hips. She braced her hands on hi shoulders and leaned down, taking his lips with hers as he slipped his hand between their bodies and grasped his cock, slipping the head between the folds of her cunt and stroking up to grind against her clit. She sank her teeth into his lower lip before sliding her tongue over the small pain, groaning into his mouth when he stroked his cock downward, the head nudging at the entrance to her body before slipping inside. Before Sansa could adjust to his width, just the smallest fraction wider than Jon, she felt Jon shift on the bed behind her and then his hands on her hips, forcing her all the way down on Jamie’s cock.

The sudden intrusion wrung twin groans from Jamie and Sansa, overshadowing Jon’s chuckle. Sansa straightened, her hair sliding over her back, strands sticking to her sweaty skin. Swallowing hard, she whispered, “That’s not playing nice, Daddy.”

“I said you had to play nice.” He slid his hands up her torso, sliding them under her hair and scrapping his nails down her back. “I never said I would.” He continued scraping his nails over her hips before dropping his hands to Jamie’s thighs, scribbling over the straining muscles. “Besides, do either of you really want me to play nice?”

“No, Daddy.” Sansa tipped her head back, resting it against Jon’s shoulder. She sucked in a deep breath when she felt one of his fingers, cool and slippery with lubricant he must have applied while she and Jamie were teasing each other, brush over the entrance to her ass. “Well, maybe a little. At first.”

“Of course, sweet girl.” Slowly, carefully, he worked one finger inside her and then a second, ignoring Sansa’s whimpers and Jamie’s low, almost breathy whines. Jon pressed his lips to Sansa’s temple, murmuring words of encouragement as she went limp, collapsing against him. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Daddy, would you fuck my ass, please?”

“Since you asked so nicely….” He trailed off as he withdrew his fingers, almost immediately replacing them with the head of his cock. “Exhale, sweet girl, and push out, just like we practiced.” He gripped her hips again, holding her in place while he eased his cock into her ass, not stopping until his hips were flush against hers. He let out a long breath between clenched teeth, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “Seven hells. Fuck. Gods.”

“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice was thin and strained. “Yeah, I think that about covers it.” He shifted under Sansa and she cried out, suddenly acutely aware of how thick and hard his cock in her cunt, how Jon’s cock in her ass made everything so much tighter. Jamie unclenched his hand from the sheets, scrabbling at her hip for a moment before Jon grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Fuck. You’re so tight. I don’t… I don’t know how long I’m going to last.”

“Understandable.” Jon gave a small, testing stroke, and all three of them moaned. Reaching up, he used his free hand to gather her hair in a loose ponytail, pushing it over her shoulder before pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. “So tell me, sweet girl—slow and easy or fast and hard?”

“I think—.” She broke off when Jamie flexed under her, her thoughts scattering for a moment before coming together again. “Fast. And hard.” She gave an experimental wiggle of her hips, digging her nails into Jamie’s torso when he bucked upward. “Gods. And maybe a little mean.”

“That’s my good girl.” Jon moved his hips in counterpoint to Jamie’s, his cock sliding out ever so slightly as Jamie sank his deeper, so Sansa was full and yet strangely empty at the same time. When she whimpered in protest, Jon reached around and cupped her breast, pinching and twisting her nipple until she cried out again. “More?”

“More.” She met Jamie’s gaze, holding it for the briefest of seconds before dragging her nails down his chest, leaving the faintest of marks. “I want to feel everything tomorrow.”

Jamie released Jon’s hand, reaching up and palming her left breast, flicking his thumb over her nipple repeatedly before twisting sharply, his nails scrapping over her breast. “Everything?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes and gave herself and her body over to the two men. “Everything.”

Jon kept his cock buried to the hilt, not stroking his hips so much as flexing. In contrast, Jamie rolled his hips, almost withdrawing with each stroke only to slide deep again. Jon pinched her nipple in random intervals, so she never quite knew when to expect the sudden burst of pain. Jamie kept his fingers locked to her nipple, twisting and flicking, until the ache spread from her nipple to encompass her entire breast. It was like being tossed from wave to wave on an ocean in the middle of a storm, never fully recovering from one sensation before being buffeted by the next.

The first orgasm took her by surprise, slapping her with the same ferocity as a wall of water, and she froze, crying out as her entire body shook and trembled, vaguely aware that both men had gone still. When she could draw a deep breath, she rasped out, “Daddy, I forgot—.”

“It’s fine, sweet girl.” Jon nipped at her shoulder, his ragged breaths echoing in her ear. “There’s no need to ask for permission. You cum as many times as you want.”

Before she could thank him, he began moving again, Jamie following suit a few seconds later, both of them moving faster, almost falling out of rhythm but not quite. The scrape of Jamie’s cock over her g-spot, the split second of almost overbearing fullness when both men were deep inside her, pushed her into a second orgasm, a third following immediately on its heels, and she felt the rush of wetness as she squirted her release over Jamie’s cock and thighs. Jamie bit back a curse, twisting her nipple harder as he arched his hips, almost lifting her off the bed, before throwing his head back on a shout as his own orgasm took hold. Jon gripped her waist, his fingers bruising hard, as he buried his cock deep in her ass, biting her shoulder to muffle his own cry of release as he emptied himself inside her.

They collapsed forward, still linked, Jamie’s heart beating rapidly under Sansa’s ear, his chest rising and falling with short, rapid breaths. After long minutes, Jon stirred, slipping free of Sansa’s body, stroking his hand over her torso when she whimpered in protest, rolling to sprawl on his back next to Jamie. “Come lay between us, sweet girl. Rest for a little bit.”

She shifted back enough for Jamie’s cock to slide from her cunt, the wet, sucking sound obscenely loud in the quiet. She squirmed into the minute space between the two men, curling toward Jon, one leg slung over his. A moment later, the bed shifted and then Jamie curled himself around Sansa, cuddling her as if she was a treasured stuffed animal, draping his arm over her torso. Jon reached up and took Jamie’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You were both very, very good.”

Sansa sighed and closed her eyes, murmuring, “Thank you, Daddy,” Jamie’s identical response whispered drowsily against her ear. She yawned, moving closer to Jon, Jamie following behind her. “Aftercare?”

“A little music.” Jon cleared his throat, activating the voice command on his phone and ordering it to play something he called ‘The B Side’. Seconds later, the soft sounds of a summer storm filled the room. “And a little nap.” He brushed his lips over her forehead and she felt him squeeze Jamie’s hand. “And when you wake up, we’ll have dinner.”

“Because I’m yours.” She yawned again. “And you’re mine.”

“Until my last day, sweet girl.” He kissed her again. “Now rest.”


End file.
